A Mire of Trouble
by M. Carwright
Summary: It's early winter in the south of France. Athos and Porthos find themselves stuck in a swamp while trying to rescue their horses from bandits who may or may not be simple horse thieves. Aramis and d'Artagnan stand a valiant defense of their mired friends and all of them pay with various levels of injury and regret. -Complete.
1. Mired

**A/N:** Welcome to my first Musketeers fic - I hope you enjoy.

A Mire of Trouble

The sun, which was hidden behind the grey of latent snow, balanced on the horizon two drinks past upright as the four musketeers trudged through the forest. The barren trunks and forlorn branches echoed the bleak mood that had befallen the men as their boots crushed the sugar-like crust of frost that sparkled across the fallen leaves. Of the four, there was one amongst them who was shedding the darkest cloud as he prowled between the trees ahead of the group by a pace.

Athos kept his eye on Porthos as the larger man growled low in his throat with each step – anger clear in the stiff set of his shoulders.

For his own part he was feeling an echo of the man's anger but also a flicker of foolishness not unlike being caught holding an empty bottle of wine that had not been his to drink. It was a strange feeling given that it was no fault of his own that had resulted in their horses being kidnapped.

He may not have chosen to have their horses stolen, but he did regret the fact that he hadn't taken ample precaution to suggest that all of them unhitch their saddlebags before finding drink and a hot meal in the inn's common room.

Athos glanced to his left where Aramis was keeping pace beside him, his sharp brown gaze flashing between Porthos storming ahead and Athos beside with equal parts amusement and concern. They'd been traipsing through this sleeping forest with winter hanging overhead for most of the day and Athos could feel Aramis's unspoken words between them. Athos glared at his friend until the marksman's lips quirked.

Athos refused to show himself quarter until they'd retrieved their mounts and the very important package that had been stored in their saddlebags that had necessitated this mission into the south of France to begin with.

"They'll have to stop to make camp at some point Porthos. At this rate we'll stumble into their camp before we've known it," came d'Artagnan's dry comment from behind them.

Porthos growled something unintelligible and didn't slow.

D'Artagnan sighed, "So we're just going to wander into their camp and hope they're all lazing in their britches with not a care in the world?"

Athos glanced back to the young Gascon then deliberately back to Porthos. "If you wish to stand in his way then I invite you to try."

Aramis snorted, "I don't think it will matter if we came onto them unawares or not," he said, tipping his head to their angry friend out front.

"Nobody messes with my horse," Porthos growled.

"Now if they'd only chosen to steal your hat as well Aramis, we'd be set to take on double their number," Athos quipped, the corner of his lip twitching of its own accord and serving to settle some of his inward facing anger.

D'Artagnan laughed as Aramis's face rippled through a series of emotions that ranged from horror at even the thought, mock anger at the jibe, and amusement, which leapt to his eyes and twinkled there for a time.

They walked in silence then as Athos's mind drifted to the sobering reality of how many men they were facing. The kidnappers had ridden away from the roadside inn two abreast and six deep, the stolen horses trailing behind.

Twelve men to their four weren't impossible odds. Porthos might even say they were barely fair for the bandits, seeing as each of them could easily account for three men apiece – more if Aramis got a few shots off. Nevertheless, Athos knew better than to be overconfident. Twelve men became a lot if every man sported a pistol, or worse, a brace of them. His experience counselled caution and as d'Artagnan fidgeted behind him, he knew the boy's instincts were saying the same thing even if the boy was too new to force the point with confidence.

Not for the first time, Athos found himself impressed by the younger man's natal skill – sensing a kinship born of an instinct for leadership and a sharpness that had yet to be tempered by experience.

Athos glanced behind him to catch d'Artagnan's gaze, holding it a moment to convey his thoughts. They were walking into something that might prove deeper than they wished.

D'Artagnan inclined his head slightly; in appreciation or understanding Athos wasn't sure, either way they held the same book and passed the page around.

"So, you think they knew what was in those bags?" Aramis asked lightly, his hand casually resting across his hilt, his head tipped towards the ground as they all did their best to keep up with Porthos.

Athos found himself frowning. It was a question that had already crossed his mind without answer. "It seems like a convenient coincidence otherwise."

Aramis nodded, "It would explain their numbers."

"And the fact that they didn't stop to rob the inn," d'Artagnan added.

"But perhaps they are merely horse thieves," Athos said, "There's profit enough in that profession if one knows what they're looking for."

Aramis hmmed, giving it some thought, but Athos knew his comment had only been to play fair to the devil's advocate – in truth, he was not so optimistic.

"Horse thieves turned a profit even in Gascony," d'Artagnan added, his tone almost hopeful.

"If you're implyin' they're intending to sell my horse for meat…" Porthos left the words hanging on a growl, his hands twitching at his sides.

His pace didn't slow, if anything it increased.

"Come now Porthos! A horse as fine as that? Even a bad horse thief would know to turn a profit better than a butcher's offer. If they _are_ horse thieves by trade, I wouldn't be surprised if they decided to steal our horses for your mount alone!"

Porthos turned around long enough to point a finger at Aramis, "I'll not have you insulting my horse when he's not 'ere to defend himself."

Aramis held his hands up in mock surrender, "Insult! I merely wished to point out that this is likely your fault by the fantastic merits of your horse. How is that an insult?"

For a moment, it looked like Porthos wished to pounce on the marksman and demonstrate with his fists what he thought of that statement, but the war with himself ended when he seemed to decide that moving forward was more important.

With Porthos's back once again turned to them, Aramis glanced at Athos and d'Artagnan and shrugged as if to say he'd tried. Athos tipped his gaze to the barren branches overhead and cast a prayer to no godly target in particular.

"I'm hungry," d'Artagnan muttered.

Athos blew a breath through his nose, trying not to sigh. He could add to the younger man's complaint with _cold, tired, _and_ sore_.

They had travelled steadily the day before on their way back from Toulouse and barely had a chance to eat their first mouthful of blessedly hot stew when the stable boy's scream had roused them all back to their feet.

Of all of them Athos suspected Aramis was the only one with recent experience in long marches, though he knew Porthos had been a soldier before he'd become a musketeer and likely had his own share of experience in the matter. As for Athos, he was feeling the burn of the relentless exertion. This amount of walking was using different muscles than the ones that received daily workouts with sword form. If he was feeling this worn by the day's activities, he knew d'Artagnan would be nearly dead on his feet.

He flicked his gaze to Porthos and then Aramis, debating how soon to call a forced rest to their march.

The lean musketeer beside him didn't catch his glance. His dark eyes were up and scanning the trees around them, a slight tension to his shoulders that told Athos that the soldier's uncanny instincts for danger had kicked in. Athos lengthened his stride, drawing closer to Porthos, his arm ready to reach out and drag the larger man down the moment the marksman's sharp eye spied what he was searching for.

There was a sharp intake of air behind him, "Wait… Listen," d'Artagnan said, his voice hushed.

Even Porthos stopped – proving that for all his anger he wasn't yet so far out of touch.

They listened for a beat, all of them still. Then from out of the trees ahead of them, they heard it; the panicked whinny of a horse, the cursing of a man, and the sharp snap of a whip or a riding crop.

"Porthos…" Aramis said in a low tone of warning, the word playful but deadly serious.

The big man's inarticulate growl was his only answer as he lurched forward; prowl turned to charge.

Athos breathed a curse and leapt after the man, d'Artagnan and Aramis following a beat later.

The trees before them broke open on grey sickly light and a sizeable clearing. A thin layer of snow had settled over the ground without the tree limbs to impede its progress.

Across the white expanse, the low fire of a camp illuminated a collection of canvas tents and the dark shapes of men moving between them.

All hope Athos had that Porthos would have the sense to stop at the tree line vanished with the echoing crack of a whip and the pained whinny of a horse. Two paces behind, Aramis hissed for his friend to stop, an edge to his voice that Athos noted but didn't pause to contemplate.

Athos moved to catch the big man's shoulder before he could go barrelling too far beyond the cover of the trees. His belly did an uncomfortable flop as he charged after Porthos into the clear. He reached for the man at the same time as he registered something different about the feel of the ground beneath his boots.

Where the ground should have stayed firm like a frozen field ought, he realised his foot had sunk a ways with each step.

A sound like gritting glass snapped out as a thin sheet of ice gave way to liquid mud.

Porthos turned with a yelp. Athos flailed for his arm as he too felt the ground break beneath him.

Athos gasped as cold water sluiced into his boots and sloshed up his pant legs.

A pace farther out, Porthos was worse off – dark water splashing as the man sank to his chest in the thick mud. The man's mouth opened in shock, the cold stealing his air. Athos clutched at his arm where he'd caught it just above the elbow.

"Porthos!" Aramis shouted. The marksman drew up short on the bank as Athos barked at him to stay.

Athos took in a concentrated breath, trying to calm the race of his heart – the last thing they needed was Aramis stuck in this mire with them. D'Artagnan seemed to have the same thought and put a hand on Aramis's arm as he came up beside him.

"Porthos?" Athos queried, trying to assess the man's gasping breaths and pale features. He seemed to gather his senses and met Athos's gaze.

"Yea?" he grunted, breathing more deliberately now through puffed cheeks.

Across the gap that was now clearly not an open field, shouts range out from the camp. Athos set that out of his mind for a moment.

"I'm going to try to pull you out," he said calmly, trapping Porthos's wide eyes with his.

"Athos…" Aramis said in warning, his attention clearly on the camp in the distance.

"Ready? One… Two…. Three." He heaved up on Porthos's arm, leaning back but trying not to overbalance as his feet stayed firmly glued in the mud beneath the thin skiff of water swirling around his thighs. Porthos tensed his arm and shoulder, trying to lift himself out by Athos's grip.

The water shifted between them, black and foul to their noses.

Athos gritted his teeth, doubling his effort. Porthos growled his defiance of the mud that gripped back.

There was a new rush of water from around Porthos's chest. It spilled out across the pristine snow, a stark wound to mark their foolish trespassing. Inch by inch, Porthos came free of the mud until Athos no longer had an angle and had to risk a step somewhere unless he wished to land square in the mud on his backside.

Keeping the tension on his friend's arm to keep him from sinking back into the gap now quickly filling with water, Athos jerked one foot loose; offering a brief prayer that that small task hadn't proved impossible. He stepped backwards, putting knee to the snow crusted ice in an effort to distribute his weight.

"Athos, here," d'Artagnan called as he pushed a sizable branch towards them. Athos grunted, not letting Porthos slip back; knowing the ground they'd won would be lost in a moment if he let up. He reached for the branch with his free hand and shifted it to within Porthos's reach. In life, the tree had been the width of his thigh but it had rotted away on one side so that it sat flat against the mud. It sank a little as Porthos leaned on it with his other hand, but it didn't disappear as Athos had feared.

Now free to his waist Porthos roared as he drew one knee to his chest.

The movement was sudden for both of them. Unbalanced, Porthos stumbled forward, his free leg coming back down into mud and sinking to the top of his thigh. As Porthos surged forward, Athos pivoted, swordsman's impulses forcing him to keep his feet in lieu of falling.

It was a mistake.

With his right leg locked in the mud, all he could do was step back with his left. His torso turned to follow where his one leg could not. His knee wrenched. The blaze of pain making him bite down on a gasp.

A great gush of swamp water rose around them and spilled away across the ice. The swampy ground behind Athos proved softer even than the rest and, in a rush, he sank, water and mud closing around his waist – cold water reaching places it had no right to be.

It was Porthos this time who caught him, one broad hand fisting in the front of his coat.

From the bank, he could hear Aramis swearing. And then, above that and the roar of pain, he could hear the sound of hoof beats approaching.


	2. Not Simple Bandits

**A/N:** A big thank you to everyone who reviewed chapter one and showed an interest in reading more – it's incredibly inspiring (I might even be inclined to edit faster and post updates at greater speed)! Also, an extra thank you to those who favorited this story so soon – this story still has a long way to go… after all, we haven't gotten to the hurt/comfort yet *wink*.

* * *

Through a cloud of pain, Athos watched the shapes of men on horseback flash through the trees.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan called, drawing his sword and pistol. He rushed forward to stand beside the marksman. Aramis's expression darkened, fire snapping to his eyes. He pulled his own pistol and turned to meet the fast approaching enemy.

The haze of pain subsided enough to allow Athos to assess the situation, realising in that moment that his friends had chosen to stand like barn doors to a hurricane.

"Find cover!" he barked, "Think damn you."

He saw Aramis's shoulders stiffen as he made to disobey the command.

"Go, Aramis." Porthos urged.

It was d'Artagnan who proved the most sensible. He nudged the marksman's shoulder and nodded to a tangle of scrub not far to their left. Aramis resisted a moment then turned to toss Porthos his spare pistol. He cast Porthos a withering look that seemed to say 'Don't shoot yourself with it,' and followed d'Artagnan into the bushes.

Athos freed his firearm from his belt as the group of bandits wheeled into view through the trees. He levelled the barrel at the enemy, not entirely sure that it would fire but deciding the sentiment was important enough.

Beside him, muddied to his chin and stuck fast to his thighs, Porthos opened the pan and cocked the hammer, lifting Aramis's gun to the first target that rode up to the tree line. A smile lurked around his mouth but it wasn't a happy smile, more like the grin of death come calling. His friend's anger was far from forgotten.

Athos examined the horses of the six approaching men, not seeing a single white sock among them, and loosed a small breath of relief. He wasn't sure what Porthos would do if his horse appeared here in front of him with another rider on its back, but he was glad he didn't have to find out while they were both mired in mud like a pair of lost lambs.

The bandit in the lead threw up his hand to slow his men as he spotted them. He stopped at the edge of the swamp, his men ranging behind him, more than a few with pistols already trained on the musketeers' chests.

Athos smoothed his expression, his eyes turning hard. He would not show even a flicker of worry or pain to these men.

"Well, look what we have here!" The lead man chuckled, "A pair of famed King's Musketeers, caught in a compromising situation. How unsurprising. Where are your friends? I'm sure they wouldn't leave you to this mess for long." He motioned for a few of his men to break up and start searching.

Athos examined the man towering over them from horseback. Only the man's grey eyes were visible above the scarf they all wore as masks. The man's voice sounded intelligent enough, learned but not necessarily cultured; from a merchant background perhaps. There was a soldier's experience clear in the way he carried himself and rode his horse. The clothes he wore were nondescript and the only thing of note besides the broad-brimmed hat was the flash of a gold ring on the middle finger of his dominant hand. The green jewel in its housing flashed as the man tipped his pistol to Athos's chest. There was little to glean from all of that, but Athos filed his observations away for later.

"Your arrival is untimely," Athos said to the man, "our friends have already left to fetch aid, else you might have found us not so easy targets."

"Is that so? Pity, if you had stayed at the inn you might have kept your life." All four men before them raised their pistols to fire.

"Do you wish to die man?" Athos barked out to stop them. "If you shoot either of us you will be dead in turn. Neither of us dies without firing a shot."

"Double damned," Porthos agreed with a firm nod, Aramis's spare also leveled at the leader's chest.

The leader held up a hand to forestall his men. "Perhaps you're right. If you two are content to stay where you are, I don't see any reason to be hasty." The man drew up his pistol and coaxed his horse smoothly backwards out of line. The rest of his men stayed as they were – an impressive display of discipline.

Athos's heart leapt to his throat. He prayed the pistol in his hand would fire, as he would need it to in a moment. Then the leader gave a loud whistle from the trees and the four men peeled away, leaving Athos and Porthos to their folly.

Athos grit his teeth, a slight shake in his hands that might have been the rush of battle or the insidious clutch of cold.

The bandit's complete withdrawal had been a surprise, but he was fully capable of looking a gift horse in the mouth and he scanned the trees for any sign of movement as the sound of the men receded into silence.

For a long undeterminable span, Athos and Porthos were alone.

"What did you do Porthos? Breathe on them?" came Aramis's call from the tree line.

"Stay where you are," Athos said, his voice calm but no less commanding.

Porthos's head snapped around to look at him.

"I don't trust this," Athos said in answer, still scanning as much of the bank as he could see without twisting his body and aggravating his knee, which was throbbing with an internal fire.

A detached part of his mind noted that his knee was about the only place he couldn't feel the cold.

Overhead the sky had darkened, the soft grey deepening to iron as the sun sank unseen towards the horizon. The air had a heaviness to it, a heaviness that spoke of snow.

Athos fought off another shiver. He glanced at Porthos and noted that the larger man was also feeling the cold, his frame stiff and his jaw clenched. Things would be much worse for them if they weren't free of this mire by nightfall.

"Enough of this," Aramis snapped, he stepped out of the trees.

"Aramis no!" but his call was too late. The crack of a musket broke the stillness.

The tree behind Aramis exploded in a burst of splinters; the marksman barely flinched as he swung his rifle up and around to fire in retaliation. There was a distant cry as Aramis found his mark and then there was a roar as bandits spilled out of the trees around him.

Athos cursed aloud, not convinced that Aramis had any right to be standing after that flashy move of insanity.

Porthos roared and fired, downing the first man who came charging towards Aramis.

Aramis dropped his rifle and his drawn pistol felled the second man. Then he drew his sword and rushed to meet the third, dipping into the trees as another musket fired from a different point along the bank.

The ball whistled through the trees harmless. But not doubt the man would have the chance to reload.

There was the sound of blades clashing as Athos turned to track the second sniper.

There. He spotted the flicker of movement along the bank as the man packed his gun, much nearer than the last. Athos braced through the pain as he turned. He switched his pistol to his left hand, opened his chest, extended his arm, sighted along the barrel, and prayed.

The mechanism clicked. The powder fizzled. Then the gun bucked as it fired.

The man went down – though Athos wasn't confident he'd hit him square.

Beside him, Porthos shouted a warning to Aramis. Athos turned back in time to see Aramis spin away from the sword of a man who had managed to flank him. He was fighting two opponents now. Then the low shape of a third arrived to join the fight. Porthos jerked and bucked at the mud holding him fast.

Damn it, where was d'Artagnan?

Athos tore his eyes away from Aramis to scan the trees, trusting that the marksman could hold his own. He tried not to gauge the validity of that trust by Porthos's thrashing, which was growing increasingly frantic.

It was as Athos scanned the trees and the bank with strained calm that he noted something important. The cold that had been sliding up his chest that he had taken for the betrayal of his own body to the cold, was actually the black water rising around him.

No that wasn't right. The water wasn't rising, _he_ was sinking. Sinking slowly, but sinking none the less. And faster now with Porthos churning the mud in an effort to escape. The mud had reached his navel and the persistent nagging of it grew even worse as it crept towards his floating ribs. Athos didn't dare take his eyes from the trees and he knew better than to order Porthos to stillness.

There was a cry as a man died on Aramis's blade. Athos glanced at Aramis in time to watch him wrench his sword from the dying man's chest and turn to parry a strike.

The marksman was beginning to tire. Sweat glistened on his face beneath the brim of his hat, his normal fluid grace falling to short bursts of economy. There was no concern in his dark gaze as he met each opponent's blows with practiced precision and his expression was flat, detached in a way that harkened back to the soldier Athos had first met.

The opponents he fought were not simple bandits – that was clear in the way they recovered from Aramis's counter blows. The marksman's efficient double-time parry riposte only managing to drive his opponents back a pace at each turn.

Porthos was right to be worried, but the dread coiling tight in Athos's chest forced his gaze to wander again, searching for their missing man.

Then his gaze landed on a new threat skirting the swamp. The bandit was clearly intent on the fight in the trees, a pistol in his hand and his eyes square on Aramis's back. The bandit paid no mind to Porthos and Athos as he edged near.

Intent on Aramis and his own fight with the mud, Porthos hadn't spotted the man and the subsequent danger.

"Porthos," Athos said. "Porthos!" Athos grabbed the larger man's shoulder, jerking him to stillness. Porthos whirled on him, anger full in every twitch of his body and feature.

"That man there." Athos nodded to their target, "Quickly. Knife!"

Porthos snapped to attention, drawing his curved blade as the man on the bank stood to take aim. Porthos twisted into the throw and the knife buried itself in the bandit's back.

Just then, one of the swordsmen miss-stepped, his foot catching on a root. Unaware of the near death behind him, Aramis lunged, batting the man's sword aside to skewer him.

With Aramis's blade lodged in his partner's ribs, the second man tried his own attack.

Aramis spun away, dropping his weapon to take up the falling man's blade. He swept the borrowed sword across the final bandit's throat. The man choked on blood and Aramis stepped in close to finish him. Sword point protruding wet from the man's back.

Aramis let the body fall without taking back the sword. He stumbled, exhaustion clear as a crisp winter night on his pale face. There was a tree at his shoulder and he reached to steady himself. His chest heaved as he leaned to catch his breath.

Still there was no sign of d'Artagnan.

Athos watched his friend recover his strength, worried on two fronts but taking it as a good sign that the marksman didn't dive off to care for a fallen comrade somewhere in the trees.

Then as if to play games with all the prayers on his lips, gunshots echoed from the bandit's camp.

Aramis jerked his head up, his brow knitting in concern.

And Athos knew where to find his missing man.


	3. The Fate of Lambs

**A/N:** Wow, again a big thank you for all the support! To those readers who I can't respond to directly – Thank You!

To all those d'Art fans out there, I just wanted to say that I indeed have something special planned for our youngest musketeer though it might not come out just yet *evil grin* – oh whoops, did I say that out loud?

* * *

_Athos watched his friend recover his strength, worried on two fronts but taking it as a good sign that the marksman didn't dive off to care for a fallen comrade somewhere in the trees. _

_Then as if to play games with all the prayers on his lips, gunshots echoed from the bandit's camp._

_Aramis jerked his head up, his brow knitting in concern. _

_And Athos knew where to find his missing man._

TMTMTMTM

"'Mis?" Porthos queried, calmer now that his friend wasn't fighting for his life.

"That would be d'Artagnan," Aramis said, "saving your damned horse. I told him to stay out of sight." Aramis retrieved his sword and rifle, staying in the cover of the trees to swiftly load and prime both the rifle and his pistol as he glanced across the swamp. His hands were quick and adept as always and, a moment later, he was striding into the open and tossing Porthos the pistol. Porthos didn't miss a beat, tossing the spent one back and catching its twin.

"Stay here," Aramis said – as if they had any choice in the matter.

He didn't linger on the bank but melted back into the trees and set off at a ground hungry stride. His hands deftly loading the pistol as he went.

Athos and Porthos watched Aramis go, more shouts echoing from the far shore.

"_Stay here_," Porthos grumbled mockingly, "Where the hell else could we go?"

He tugged with on leg, once again trying to free it. Water splashed and rippled and the rise of bubbles around Athos's chest confirmed what he had already suspected. He was still sinking.

Athos's shoulders were beginning to ache the way he had to hold his arms out to the side to keep them out of the muck. With the frigid water lapping at his ribs Athos found himself panting for air, his chest protesting the cold that seemed to grip as strong as the mud.

"Porthos?" Athos said, unable to resist the shiver that racked him full-bodied and tugged at his wrenched knee.

Porthos thrashed some more.

"_Porthos_! Stop that this instant."

"What?" Porthos glared at him, "I'm tired of this. Can't see what's going on from 'ere. What if d'Artagnan's hurt?"

"I'm sinking."

"What?"

"I am sinking."

Porthos growled, "I heard what you said."

"Good because I was beginning to suspect that you'd lost your ears."

Porthos glared at him. "How bad?"

"Bad enough."

Porthos eyed him up and down, his expression grim. "And you're shivering."

"Pot. Kettle." And it was true, even sturdy mud-coated Porthos was starting to shiver.

Porthos's face twisted in renewed determination and he launched back into his struggles as if this time it would lead to results.

"_Porthos_. Porthos! Stop thrashing damn you!"

The water rose to the center of his chest, the mud beneath shifting firmly around his ribs. The cold damp invaded his armpits and Athos couldn't stifle his gasp. Thankfully, that seemed to draw Porthos's gaze better than his name and the man stilled instantly.

"O," he said, clearing his throat, "Sorry. I get it."

There was a moment of stillness between them as Athos tried to slow his beating heart and Porthos breathed out a heavy sigh. "Damn," he said.

"What?" Athos asked tiredly, he didn't remember closing his eyes.

"It's snowing."

"How rude of it." Athos quipped, prying his eyes open to stare up at the darkened sky and watch the white flakes swirl into view. Distractedly he realised he couldn't feel the snow landing on his face. That probably wasn't a good sign.

He glanced at Porthos who was standing like a planted dock post, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a pale cast to his cheeks.

"'ey Athos, you ever give any thought to the lambs and such that get trapped in the mud out in the county?"

"Funny you should mention it at a time like this. Is that something you wonder about often?" Athos asked wryly. He quirked a smile then resolved to let another shiver pass.

"Well I just got thinkin', don't know if they die of hunger or thirst or drown in it like." He said the last without glancing at Athos.

"My wager would be on the wolves, my friend," he answered, tired now. It had been a long time since there had been any sound from the camp and Athos tried not to let his thoughts linger on why that might be.

"Right," Porthos said. He swallowed and scanned the empty edge of the swamp. "You don't think there are any, 'round these parts, right?"

"I have no idea Porthos. But may we perhaps discuss a topic less relevant to the circumstances?"

Porthos's face turned stoic, "Right." He scanned the bank again, another silence falling between them.

Athos found himself too tired to force more words.

The shivers didn't bother him as much after that and even the fiery pain of his knee receded beyond sensation.

"Athos."

Someone was shaking him.

"Athos you gotta stay awake."

He blinked. His vision swam a moment before he wondered where he was. Not a happy place clearly, all he wanted at that moment was a bed, but there was one very angry, curly haired giant staring him down to suggest that wasn't about to happen.

His limbs felt weighted with mud.

Right, he remembered now.

And with that memory came the realisation that they were still alone…

Athos jerked his head up. "Where?" he gasped.

"Not back yet. Hasn't been that long. An hour? Sun's still here somewhere, 'cept it's snowing."

It had felt longer. Oh so much longer. Athos drew as deep a breath as he could manage, feeling the mud squeeze around his torso, pressing back as if the cold in his bones was now freezing the mud around him.

"Don't worry, we'll get you out of 'ere soon," Porthos said, but there was a slight edge to his voice and when Athos glanced at his friend he could see the white panic in his eyes.

"Don't worry over it…" Athos mumbled, his tongue resisting his commands. How irritating. He wasn't sure what he'd do with another Aramis to contend with. It was a good thing d'Artagnan showed more sense…

"There they are," Porthos clapped him on the shoulder and then grabbed his sleeve to hold him upright.

Athos struggled to raise his head, relief fluttering in his chest. Athos imagined, bemused, that the relief danced around his heart as if to tease its lethargy until it thudded back into wakeful vigor. Some of the tiredness eased from his limbs, and finally, Athos managed to lift his head and see the two men riding through the trees towards them with two horses in tow.

The two men looked worn and battered but their faces brightened as they approached.

"Aramis, d'Artagnan. 'urry up." Porthos said, "Athos is sinking."

Athos was too tired to point out that he wasn't sinking so long as Porthos remained still – the fact that he wasn't any deeper than the last time he'd checked made him wonder if Porthos had even so much as twitched since he'd found out. Athos frowned at the unnaturalness of that thought.

"Athos?" That was Aramis, not quite beside him but as near as he could get without standing in the swamp. "Porthos is going to help you tie this around your chest. We're going to pull you out."

Athos felt like he had missed part of the conversation but he nodded, sensing that that was what the earnest brown eyes were waiting for.

He felt Porthos lean towards him, broad hands going around his chest. Cold water inched higher beneath his armpits, dragging a gasp from his hampered lungs. Porthos seemed to freeze for a moment and then just as quickly resumed his actions.

Rope secured around his chest, Porthos lifted Athos's hands to the tether and wrapped his fingers around the knot at his sternum.

"Hold on," he mumbled and Athos wondered if Porthos was having any more luck with the rebellious tongue of his own.

Someone chided a horse forward and the rope went taught. The sensation was strange. As the mud tore free, colder water sluiced to take its place making him realise that he had long ago stopped feeling the mud and the air. This new cold was sharp and then all at once it was eclipsed by the angry roar of his knee as he was dragged bodily out of the mud and across frozen ground.

Then just as quickly, Aramis and d'Artagnan were there.

"Help… Por…thos," he managed and then everything went dark.


	4. Cold, Tired, and Sore

**A/N: **Everyone's got some recovering to do, but don't worry, the action hasn't run its course yet. Once again, a particular shout out to those of you who I can't respond to personally. And a big thank you to everyone who's reading and enjoying this fic!

* * *

TMTMTM

"Athos. Athos." Aramis cursed, moving quickly to shuck the man's sodden clothes. "D'Artagnan, we need a fire. Porthos," he called back to his friend who was fumbling with the rope and cold fingers as he struggled to tie it around his own chest. "Would you be mad at me if I left you there a moment?"

Porthos froze.

"I'll take that as a yes."

D'Artagnan joined him where he was kneeling beside the prone and pale form of their leader, setting their cloaks to the side as he reached to help Aramis strip Athos down to his underclothes.

Aramis measured his breathing to hide the strain this was causing his own wounds. There was no time for them now. He would have d'Artagnan help him once they'd ensured their comrades wouldn't die of exposure as was quickly becoming the case. Aramis was under no illusions as to how precarious this was and he sensed that d'Artagnan knew just as well.

He opened his mouth to order the boy to the task of a fire but d'Artagnan was up before he could say a word, searching the forest floor for dry tinder and small twigs. Aramis was thankful d'Artagnan had the task; the farm boy was more capable of it than any of them.

Aramis wrapped Athos in a cloak, rubbing his arms and legs through the fabric in an effort to move blood through the limbs.

The older man's skin was as pallid as the snow caught in his hair, his lips near to blue.

Aramis locked out visions of dead musketeers who had held much the same look. He would not think of them here, or now, not in the woods, not like this. Aramis cursed as the memory came anyways and blocked out the bustle of d'Artagnan a stone's toss away. He focused on the movement of his own hands, allowing the coarse wool of the fabric to disguise the cold and taught flesh that was beneath. He swam back from the memory by reminding himself over and over that his friend was not dead, that his friend would not die so long as he kept moving.

The faint smell of wood smoke coiled up amongst the trees as d'Artagnan coaxed a spark to life amidst the nest of wood shavings. Aramis glanced up to watch the younger man gently set the flame to the wood he'd shorn to splinters. It caught with an indignant stutter then blazed. One, two, three careful pieces of wood and the fire earned a life of its own.

"Good, now get Porthos, and keep your eyes open for sizable stones. We'll need something to transfer the fire's heat."

D'Artagnan nodded. Aramis noted the tired lurch to his steps and the darkness beneath his eyes. It had been a long day for all of them.

Beneath his hands, Athos groaned. Aramis's smile was for his own benefit, a small echo of his relief. Athos couldn't die if he could wake.

Aramis paused to shift his friend closer to the fire, grunting as the effort tore at the cut across his back. A warm trickle told him it was bleeding again but he resigned himself to the thought that the wound would remain clean if it continued to bleed – what that was doing to his reserve of strength was another matter, but one problem at a time.

Athos groaned again as Aramis leaned over to feed the fire from the pile of sticks d'Artagnan had set nearby. The flames were greedy for the sustenance and he let them urge him into another offering. D'Artagnan's pile was meager and Aramis took a moment to cast his gaze across the forest floor for more twigs and branches. The ones he collected were damp but he rested them one by one near the fire so that it might work for its keep.

Behind him, d'Artagnan had joined the horse and now coaxed it forward. There was a heavy grunt as Porthos was dragged like a wet, overlarge sack from the mud.

D'Artagnan hobbled the horse and quickly moved to Porthos who was flopping weakly on the bank.

Aramis quickly finished rolling Athos into a different cloak, more dry than the first which was now soggy and cold, and pushed to his feet to check on his other dear friend. D'Artagnan was struggling to help the larger man to his feet and Aramis ducked under the man's other arm to half drag him towards the fire and onto solid, if not dry, land. Porthos's grip tightened around Aramis's shoulders and Aramis couldn't stifle the grunt as the big man found the slice across his bicep. D'Artagnan glanced sharply at him over Porthos's bowed head.

"Later," Aramis told him and his tone broached no argument.

D'Artagnan arched an eyebrow as if to say he would be holding him to it.

Aramis snorted, knowing the boy would do just so. Still, two invalid musketeers were enough. He was just glad d'Artagnan's own injuries measured only in bruises and the odd scratch.

"Athos…" Porthos whispered thickly between them, his head titled up and fixated on the deathly still figure of Athos.

"Looks worse than it is Porthos," Aramis said, not quite a lie – near enough but oh so necessary for all their sakes.

"Not dead?" the big man mumbled; relief and doubt clouding his voice.

"No Porthos and neither are you so pick up your feet before you drag us all down. How much have you been eating lately?"

Porthos straightened a little, his feet catching one at a time as he got them working. It helped ease the weight off Aramis's tortured shoulders and his sigh of relief was real.

They had Porthos sitting beside the fire a beat later, d'Artagnan disappearing again as Aramis concentrated on cajoling Porthos out of his clothing. No simple task in his current weakened and belligerent state. The big man batted his hands away as Aramis set to the task with businesslike determination.

"Porthos if you don't help me strip away that wet clothing you're wearing then I can't help Athos."

Porthos glared at him and Aramis met his stare evenly.

"I could have d'Artagnan hit you. But you would be making it harder as I would have to lift you out of those damn clothes and you are heavy my friend." A bit of exhaustion leaked into his words and that seemed to tip the scales.

Porthos fumbled with the toggles on his jacket and Aramis brushed his hands away to make the task quicker. Aramis had Porthos stripped to bare chest and breeches in moments and tossed a cloak around his shoulders, rubbing up and down on his arms to dry them.

"I found some rocks," d'Artagnan said, coming back to the fire with arms loaded beneath half a dozen fist-sized stones.

"Good. Set them in the fire, straight in the coals."

D'Artagnan did as instructed, stoking the fire and feeding it as he went.

"How is he?" d'Artagnan asked, not glancing up from the flames.

"Better off than Athos."

"_He_ is right 'ere." Porthos grumbled, his tongue still thick and his jaw clenching against shivers that had started up again. Aramis wasn't going to say it but the shivers that seemed determined to rattle the teeth right out of his head made Aramis incredibly happy to see. It meant his body was taking its warmth back into its own hands.

"Dry off the rest of the way," he told Porthos. He moved back to Athos. He lifted the man to remove the one cloak and replaced it with their last one, which had now had a moment near the fire. It would now be the driest and warmest of the four. He resumed his rubbing, spending extra time on the man's lower legs. It was as his hands found the swollen joint of the man's right leg that Athos jerked awake with a gasp.

They all jumped in surprise.

Aramis murmured apologies as Athos's blue eyes wandered the darkened sky in torturous confusion. His throat worked as if trying to say something.

D'Artagnan leaned over and set a hand on the man's shoulder, "It's ok Athos, we're all here. Everyone's here. We're safe."

That calmed the wild look in their leader's gaze and Aramis blew out a weighted breath, running a hand through his hair.

"His knee?" Porthos asked.

Aramis nodded, "I think it's wrenched nothing worse, though I dare not touch it again to know for sure. Not just yet anyways."

Porthos nodded, swallowed. He seemed to have regained himself, a more natural color to his skin now as he huddled beneath his cloak near the licking tongues of fire opposite Athos's prone form. "What took you so long?" he asked gruffly.

Aramis and d'Artagnan shared a glance.

"One got away," d'Artagnan said.

"Which one," Porthos growled.

"The leader," Aramis answered, reaching a flat hand towards the nearest firestone to test its temperature. It radiated heat back to him. He lifted a stick to coax it from its cushion of coals. He rolled it into the folds of the cloak, nestling it against Athos's side, taking care to keep a layer of cloth between.

"We chased him into the woods at the far side of camp," d'Artagnan continued, "He knew exactly what he was taking when he left."

"Duc Montmorency's signet ring," Porthos guessed.

"Exactly," Aramis said.

"Did you catch him?"

"He had a head start," d'Artagnan said.

"No," Aramis clarified, "He knew we wouldn't leave you behind. He probably galloped his horse near to death. It was a smart play. We won't catch him now."

"So that's it? We just let him take the Duc's signet? Let our mission collapse 'round our ears in miserable failure?"

"I didn't say that," Aramis snapped, but now he knew he was being unfair. He was tired and hurting, and more than anything, he just wanted to be back in Paris with some wine, some hot food, and a warm bed shared with soft curves of the feminine variety.

"You're right, can't have meant that, that's not the Aramis I know." Porthos glared at him.

Aramis sighed and met his friend's determined stare, "You're right my friend, I'm sorry. Tomorrow is a different day and perhaps the task will not feel so daunting then." Aramis concentrated on the heated stones, transferring them one at a time to Athos's side.

Slowly the man began to shiver.

"That's a good sign right?" d'Artagnan asked, his hand still firm on Athos's shoulder.

Aramis nodded, sensing that Porthos was also hanging on his answer. "He's beginning to warm."

"He still feels so cold."

"He will for a while yet. We're lucky there's no wind this night."

"D'Artagnan?" Athos mumbled, his eyes blinking open then narrowing as the man clearly struggled to focus.

D'Artagnan leaned in close, "Yes Athos?"

"Don't… wait on my… account…"

The three of them shared a glance, none of them knowing what the older man was on about.

Athos seemed to sense their confusion.

"Eat," he said forcefully around a violent bout of shivering.

Aramis chuckled, "Sound advice my friends."

"He's right, I'm starved," Porthos said.

D'Artagnan glanced between them, "Right."

The younger man regained his feet, but he paused as if he wasn't sure he wanted to leave his mentor's side. Finally, he moved to the horses on a quest for the travel rations they had packed for the journey at the start of all of this.

Aramis hoped the hardtack was still in there, if their saddlebags had been ransacked to get to the discrete wooden box that had held the signet ring, then there might not be food to find. A moment later d'Artagnan returned with a waterskin and one crumbled loaf of bread.

"That's all there is," he said as he divided the bread between them. He knelt at Athos's side and lifted the man's head so he could drink. The man's shivers spilled half the water down his chin but none of them minded as he managed some with a swallow.

They all fell into silence after that. The pop of the fire and the shifting of the horses the only sound bouncing between the watchful trees.

Aramis glanced across the fire to Porthos, realising the man was slumped boneless against the tree at his back, the half-eaten lump of bread still in his hand.

If Porthos was tired enough to sleep when there was food at hand, it meant he was tired indeed.

Aramis stood, intent on tucking the larger man in so he wouldn't undo all of their hard work in warming him. The movement wasn't sudden but his legs felt like jelly and he staggered a step. He glanced at d'Artagnan but the younger man hadn't noticed, his own eyelids drooping in exhaustion where he sat, one thigh pressed to Athos's side.

Aramis wrapped Porthos tighter in the cloak, the big man grumbling some unintelligible protest without truly waking. Then he turned to d'Artagnan next, tapping his shoulder to wake him. The boy's head came up off his chest and he blinked around.

"Come d'Artagnan, I'll take first watch. Settle against this tree. I'll shift Athos against your chest. He'll sleep better with you at his back."

D'Artagnan did as he was told, his jaw cracking on a massive yawn. A moment later they had Athos settled against him, the older man's breathing strong and even though he didn't stir under their hands. A moment later d'Artagnan was asleep.

With his friends safe and recovering to his satisfaction, Aramis knew it was time to deal with his own injuries as best he could. He collected his kit from the horses and settled down near the fire, surgical kit on one side, rifle on the other.


	5. A Lonely Watch

**A/N:** A short chapter and a quick warning: this chapter contains blood and minor descriptions of wound tending – Aramis has some work to do. (I admit this chapter feels more like set-up and housekeeping to me, but never fear, action and tension will arrive with the morning!)

* * *

Years ago, Aramis had learned the value of keeping a small metal cup with his surgical kit. It was battered and blackened but still held water, and that was all Aramis ever asked of it. He tipped a glug of water into the cup and pushed it into the coals.

As he waited for the water to boil, he peeled apart the layers of torn fabric across his bicep, hissing softly as the material tugged on the wound. It was a nasty gash, one that may have even taken the arm if it hadn't been for the leather of his coat. He'd been lucky it had been his left arm or it would have hampered his sword skills in a way that could have proved fatal.

It had ceased bleeding hours ago and hurt less than the cut across his back, which was an indication of how deep it truly was. The skin around the wound was hot and tight under his fingers and Aramis firmed his mind to the approaching task of cutting away the jagged edges of the wound – the heat already warning of infection.

It was a good thing he had practice with wielding the small surgical blade on himself.

He unbuttoned his coat and gingerly pulled his arm through, doing the same with his shirt, so that he had full access to the wound without exposing his entire torso to the bitter cold.

Even still, the hair on his back prickled and gooseflesh raised along his arm. He reached out to add another piece of wood to the fire – catching a chill would not do well if the aim was to combat a fever.

He readied the vial that held a small concentration of spirits. If they'd had wine, he would have used that. He would rather have saved the vial for emergencies, but, at this point, he knew the wound couldn't go without.

He threaded the hooked needle with one pale horsehair then prepared some strips of cloth.

The water began to bubble and hiss. He set his tools one by one into the water.

Finally ready, he tied one strip of cloth above the wound as a tight tourniquet to keep the bleeding down and his view of the flesh clear, and then he paused a moment to steady his breathing before taking up the knife and starting.

In his experience, the first cut was often the worst. Mentally, the challenge of doing harm to oneself grew easier with each sawing cut, while conversely, the task grew more physically challenging as the blood began to flow anew.

He split his concentration between his task and the effort of forcing even breathes through his spasming lungs as his hand began to shake in pain and weariness and his grip on the knife became slippery.

He was glad of two things then – one, that his friends were blissfully unaware of his drama, and two, that there were no bandits left to attack at that very moment because he was in no position to defend anyone.

Finally, the wound was fresh again and he splashed a portion of the vial across the gash, unable to silence the strangled cry that wrestled past his throat at the searing pain of it.

Porthos stirred, mumbling something, his brow knitting firmly.

Aramis paused, breathing through the pain, sweat beaded on his forehead, cold against the night air even with the fire flickering before him.

Porthos settled again, too exhausted to wake completely. Aramis was glad for it. He had the situation well in hand. If Porthos were awake he would be sacrificing his strength just to stand by and worry – the kind of worry that Aramis would always feel guilty for inspiring.

He returned to the wound and set to it with needle and thread.

Tonight the stitches were far from his best. He relied one handed on the tug of needle and the tightening drag of thread to pull the two sides of the wound together when otherwise he might have employed a free hand. He dipped the needle farther into healthy tissue to lessen the chance that the thread would tear through flesh as it pulled together. When he was done, the wound looked more like a butcher's best stuffed roast than a seamstress' first sewn dress.

He wrapped the wound tightly, loosened the tourniquet, stretched back into his shirt and jacket, and set about gruffly cleaning his tools.

By the time all of that was done, he was about ready to fall over – even sitting as he was.

He reminded himself of the other wound that he had yet to clean or touch. It was a fruitless reminder. The sword cut was square across his back in a place he couldn't reach. Still, it was dangerous to ignore it.

He glanced again at Porthos, debating if he should wake the other man. Porthos was completely limp, his chest rising and falling in a deep and even rhythm. No snores issued from his open mouth, which told Aramis that he was still dangerously exhausted; his body clinging to even that amount of energy. Aramis sighed and resigned himself to waiting. Perhaps in a few hours he would wake d'Artagnan to take second watch and he would ask him to clean the wound then.

Although the cut was much longer than the slice on his bicep, it was shallow and he decided he wouldn't let it worry him now.

He tipped his head back and stared up into the night, his mind blank on how soon it might be to morning. There were no stars to see and he decided that was a minor blessing as the cloud cover kept the temperature from dropping.

Aramis took a moment to settle himself under one of the cloaks with his rifle across his knees. The coarse fabric was dryer than it had been, as it had lain near the fire, but it was still damp in places. Serviceable for now and better than nothing. He slumped under its weight, fighting off a yawn and feeling the angry throb of his arm. He would watch a while and then wake d'Artagnan.

* * *

**A/N:** That's the plan anyways;)


	6. The Trouble with Breakfast

TMTMTM

Porthos woke himself up snoring. The sudden sound made him bolt awake like a startled rooster.

His addled thoughts came down on two things. First, he was nearly naked and bloody cold now that he'd tossed the cloak away in his surprise. And second, that all three of his brothers were near. Aramis was cross-legged before the fire, his head tipped down beneath his feathered hat, Athos was pale and boneless against d'Artagnan's chest, and the boy was sound asleep against the tree at his back. Porthos gathered the cloak back across his chest as he watched Athos, relaxing as he saw the older man breathing deeply, though he still looked like day old porridge.

He glanced at Aramis, waiting for his friend's clever jibe about one such thing or another – perhaps about finding his true calling in a mud wallow. But the other man was silent and finally Porthos realised he too had fallen asleep. He chuckled as he glanced around for his clothes, finding them stretched around camp as if to ward away wolves. He wrapped the cloak around him and moved to collect his garments, trying to be quiet so as not to disturb his friends' much needed rest.

Once dressed in clothes that were stiff with mud but much dryer for being laid flat, he carefully draped the cloak across Aramis's lax shoulders. His friend didn't stir and Porthos wondered that he could even sleep sitting like that, too much practice sleeping on watch he decided. He would remember to poke him about that later. Porthos grinned. Relived that his friend was safe.

He set about the task of finding food. He came up empty handed, finding only a waterskin that was nearly empty.

Through the trees and across the swamp, the tents of the bandit camp beckoned invitingly. He'd bet there was food there.

He wondered that they hadn't chosen to rest there in the night but the answer was obvious as he glanced down at Athos. The man had been in no condition to be dragged around a swamp even if there promised to be more supplies on the other end.

He decided that at least he could pull his weight by fetching breakfast.

He went into the woods to retrieve his horse who hadn't wandered far, hobbled as he was, and who still wore his saddle and riding tack. Porthos grimaced at the lack of care but didn't blame any of his brothers', instead turning his anger on the bandits who had forced their hand.

The big brown lifted his hip out of sleep as Porthos approached. The horse nickered softly, clearly happy to see him. Porthos scratched his forehead as he ran his eyes across his flanks, picking out a lash mark or two. His rage boiled but he had no target to take it to so he settled himself with the fact that the damage didn't appear lasting. The horse butted his chest as if to remind him that he would be fine and they had a job to do. Porthos patted his shoulder, untied the hobbles and drew the horse back to their small fire. Which was mostly just smouldering coals now.

Porthos debated waking Aramis, knowing his friend wouldn't like the idea of a camp without an active watch, but if he'd fallen asleep on that same all-important watch, what did that say about how tired he was?

There was the sound of a yawn as d'Artagnan stirred. The young Gascon scrubbed one hand over his eyes and blinked up at Porthos.

"Going somewhere?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

Porthos set the waterskin in his hand, "Breakfast. I'll be back before these two lumps are up."

D'Artagnan took a pull of water, "I'll have eggs. And some bacon, if this fine establishment you know about has any."

Porthos kicked his boot, "You'll take what you can get."

D'Artagnan smiled, "Aye, that too."

"Watch 'em while I'm gone," he motioned to the two musketeers in question, seeing d'Artagnan's slight frown when his eyes fell on Aramis – even their newest member knew how tired Aramis had to have been to fall asleep on watch.

"Won't be long," he said gruffly.

In truth, he wasn't entirely comfortable leaving them at all. Seeing Aramis fight for his life without the freedom to jump to his friend's aid had been harrowing in a way that Porthos wasn't familiar with. It made him want to linger at his friend's side just to ensure he was there if anything went wrong.

Finally, it was the twist and growl of his belly that reminded him that none of them had eaten more than crusts of bread in two days.

He swung onto his horse and directed it away from the fire and onto a path that would take him around the swamp in the direction of the camp.

The snow had stopped sometime in the night and the thin skiff that coated the forest floor proved that it had seemed a worse problem when he and Athos had been trapped in the muck.

Beneath him, his horse seemed in good spirits even considering all that had happened. Its gait was smooth and sure as they moved together through the trees.

Seeing the camp from across the mire it hadn't seemed so far away, but it proved a greater distance than Porthos had thought. The edge of swampy ground meandered in a less-than-perfect arc as if nature had been drinking when it drew the boundary between mud and trees.

Finally, he came up on the camp. There was no movement to suggest there was anyone home, but Porthos kept his eyes open for danger. He decided he wouldn't mind if he found some as he still felt the need to pay someone back for what they'd done to his horse.

The camp was well established, four medium sized tents in an open area around a large stone-ringed fireplace complete with spit and pot hooks.

He tethered his horse just outside of the circle of canvas, and drew his pistol as he advanced. There were dead bandits in his path, crumpled across the ground either the work of d'Artagnan or Aramis from the day before.

The first tent he searched held scattered bedrolls and little else. The second much the same. The third tent proved the winner with crates of wine bottles, sacks of flour, and hanging racks of salted meat. Porthos emptied a sack of flour – thinking none of them had the patience for bread making – and loaded it with two bottles of wine and as much salted meat as it would carry. He glanced at the crate. Three more bottles peering over the top. Two bottles wouldn't go far between the four of them.

He was just reaching for another sack when a sound behind him made him pause. He'd set his pistol down on a barrel nearby and now he was sure he could hear someone outside.

The tent flap was slapped open and Porthos dove for his pistol as a shot roared into the small space. Glass and wine exploded over his head. Porthos brought his gun up from his prone position and fired. The gun clicked but there was no flash of powder or explosive bang.

The man, who was wearing a dirty sling around one arm, jerked back as if he expected a ball in the chest. Then he dropped his pistol and reached for his sword.

Porthos swore, realising he hadn't thought to clean his pistol in the aftermath of yesterday, and scrambled to his feet, trading his own firearm for his sword and just managing to catch the man's charge across the edge of his blade. Sparks flew as Porthos shoved the man away and cut into a strike. Even one handed the man was better than Porthos expected, managing to parry Porthos's sweep and countering with a sidestep and a jab forward.

Porthos gave ground, almost stumbling at the stacks beneath his feet.

He blocked the man's blow then came back with his own. The force slamming against his opponent's blade jarring his teeth in his head. It was the bandit who stepped back now and Porthos roared, giving chase. The man frantically caught two more of Porthos's weighted strikes, turning his body away from the third on a desperate dodge. Porthos reversed the blow and scored a line across the man's hip. He pressed the opening and pounded his fist into the man's face. The man staggered and Porthos ran him through with a final growl.

The man staggered for a moment, gasping around Porthos's blade, and then he folded dead to the floor.

Porthos stood over the man, more out of breath than normal.

From what he'd seen and just experienced, these men hadn't sold their lives cheap. He was beginning to think Aramis was right – these weren't no simple bandits. Staring down at the man, Porthos realized this was likely the man Athos had winged who had been sniping along the tree line. He'd probably come here for the same reason Porthos had.

Suddenly he was glad camping here hadn't been an option the night before. Aramis would never have forgiven himself if an ambush had happened on his watch and he'd been asleep for it.

Porthos stooped to collect his pistol and the sack he'd filled. He stopped on his way out to take the bandit's pistol. He'd load and prime this one for now and worry about cleaning his own when he had the chance. These woods were proving deadly in more than one sense and Porthos was past caring that it felt overcautious.

He scanned the gathered stores one last time, sighing heavily at the crate dripping with wine that he'd much rather'd have drunk, and stepped back into the grey daylight to rejoin his horse.

TMTMTM

The blast of gunfire that echoed from the camp drove Aramis to his feet before his mind was even awake. He was up, rifle in hand and searching for enemies in the trees before he remembered that he wasn't alone this time. This wasn't Savoy.

He blinked, his heart pounding against his sternum and sweat stinging his eyes as he registered with a flop of his belly that Porthos wasn't where he'd left him. At the same time, d'Artagnan, who was clutching the stiffened and very awake Athos, breathed the missing man's name.

Aramis turned towards the camp, waiting for the crack of another shot. There wasn't one.

His mind worked through cotton to put things together, realising that he had fallen asleep on watch without waking anyone, that Porthos must have woken and decided he was hungry, and that he had subsequently left to raid the camp alone.

He turned to d'Artagnan, "Did he take your pistol?" he asked, his voice gruff with an exhaustion that hadn't abated any for having slept.

Athos's eyes grew wide as he sensed where Aramis was going with the question.

D'Artagnan shook his head and Aramis muttered a curse. He doubted Porthos had stopped to clean his gun, and with the abuse it had landed in yesterday, Aramis knew it would be next to useless. That was a problem in itself but it grew to be more of a problem when it answered the question of who fired the shot.

Aramis jerked into motion, desperate now to get to the camp and find his friend.

Athos too was struggling to his feet, clutching the cloak tightly to his chest as he searched for his clothing. Aramis bent to retrieve them and bit down hard on the cry of agony that almost slipped past his lips as the motion tore the wound across his back. There was no time for that now. He tossed the clothes to d'Artagnan.

Athos glared at Aramis as he snatched the bundle out of the boy's hands and proceeded to dress himself, his knee making him unsteady. Aramis didn't care so long as they were all moving towards Porthos, who he prayed was not now lying in a pool of his own blood.

D'Artagnan kicked out the fire as Aramis moved to his horse. He freed it from its hobbles and pulled himself over its back, thankful the other two were too busy to hear his gasp or see the instant shake in his hands. Sweat poured down his back, burning like fire when it spilled into his wound.

"Athos?" he managed to grit out, ready to be off _now_.

"Go Aramis, we'll catch up."

Aramis kicked his horse around and into a fast canter, wanting to gallop all the way there but knowing the trees wouldn't let him. Even still, a canter proved torture enough. Each jolt of the horse's steps drove the air out of his lungs and before long he was out of breath as if he'd done the running himself.

With a savage burst of clarity, he realised that if he didn't ease his pace now he wouldn't have any strength left in his limbs to even fire a shot when he reached the camp. He reined in, canter turning to trot, steeling his mind against the pain that only deepened, flattening across his entire back until it was his fingers that hurt from gripping the reins so tightly. He set his gaze to the ghostly shapes of tents that slipped elusive through the trees ahead of him. Stubbornness keeping him in the saddle long after his equilibrium would not.

He was so intent on reaching the camp that at first he didn't see the rider coming to meet him. Then when that caught up to his mind in a way that penetrated the fog of his thoughts Aramis jerked for his pistol, terrified at his own delay. He forced the barrel up, his sight swimming too much to aim, trusting instead that he wouldn't miss.

"Aramis!" Porthos bellowed from somewhere ahead and the spell broke as he recognised who was riding towards him. Aramis gasped.

Then he folded over the front of his horse.


	7. Fallen

**A/N**: I know I'm skating the comfort and angst in places with this story – let me know if I need to dive deeper or if the understatedness is working for you. A big thank you to my readers who I can't respond to directly.

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TMTMTM

The first thing that Porthos realised as he watched his friend ride towards him was that the man was greyer than his damn hat. Porthos urged his horse to speed up, concern flooding his veins as Aramis wavered in the saddle. His friend's head came up as if he'd just sighted Porthos ahead and Porthos watched in alarm as the marksman reached for his pistol.

Porthos twisted to glance behind him. Seeing no one, he turned back to find cold eyes pinned to his chest. His heart thudded behind his ribs as his friend raised his arm. The limb shook as if in a wind but the pistol was rock solid on point.

"Aramis," he managed to choke out, then, "Aramis!"

The man's head jerked and Porthos watched in stunned horror as his friend folded forward and out of the saddle.

For one frozen moment Porthos knew he was about to watch his dearest friend be trampled by his own horse.

Then luck or fate intervened and the animal panicked at the shifting weight on its back. It sidestepped Aramis's boneless body as the man hit the ground at its feet.

Porthos leapt off his own horse and charged towards where his friend had fetched up on his side, one arm raised above his head. The man's eyes were closed, his skin no less grey from this much closer. Porthos slid to his knees, his hands reaching for Aramis's face.

_No no no, _"Aramis," he growled, _you'd better not be dead._ He wanted to say it but the words lurched in his throat.

Aramis's skin was damp and warm beneath his hand, faint puffs of air against his wrist told him he still lived and some of the panic eased from Porthos's limbs.

He carefully rolled his friend to his back, searching for injury, frowning at the dressing wrapped around his left arm – he hadn't noticed that before. It must have been hidden beneath the cloak across his shoulders that morning. There were no other injuries to see on the surface, though a fall like that could have claimed ribs. Porthos grimaced and ran a hand up and then down both sides of Aramis's ribcage, pressing with his fingers to feel for bones out of place. He breathed a rumbling breath when he found none.

Aramis's breaths on the other hand were shallow and light in a way that made him doubt his friend was even getting enough air.

Porthos sat back on his heels running through his mind yesterday's fight in an effort to remember something that would tell him what was ailing his friend. His eyes grew wide as he watched Aramis twist away from the man who had flanked him. He rolled his friend over and growled as he found what he was looking for.

_How could any of them have missed this?_ All at once he was furious, at himself, at Aramis, at all of them.

His hands fisted in Aramis's coat. The shallow sword cut ran from the lower portion of his shoulder blade on one side to an inch or two below the shoulder blade on the other, perfectly positioned so that it must have broken open at each bend or twist. The exertion of the horse had torn it anew so that fresh blood ran into his coat in a wide slashing stain.

Why didn't he stop to tend it or insist that one of them do so? His friend should have known the danger of it! But a small part of him whispered that his friend might have done so if Porthos had been there at his side this morning instead of off raiding a bandit camp of its wine.

There was the sound of more hoof beats and Porthos glanced up to see d'Artagnan and Athos riding to join them.

Athos slid off his horse before it stopped, landing with his weight on one leg and favoring his bad knee as he limped forward.

D'Artagnan was quick on his heels.

"What happened?" Athos asked, voice urgent. Dry mud coated him head to toe but there was steel in his eyes. His sharp gaze ran over them both, assessing.

"He fell of his horse. Before that I coulda sworn he was goin' to shoot me." Porthos brushed the back of his hand across one cheek – not liking the memory of it.

The older man's brow lifted on surprise. Behind him, d'Artagnan swore as he caught sight of the wound. The younger man twisted away as if to escape the situation, a hand tangling in his hair. Then he turned back and reengaged. He gestured to the wound in Aramis's back, "He was wounded, and I knew it. I was so tired last night I let him lull me into sleep with the promise that he would tend to it. My mind was so foggy. I should have remembered he needed my help!" His voice was rising – anger placed squarely on his own chest making his voice tight. He slammed the back of his fist against the nearest tree.

Athos rounded on him and planted a hand on his chest. He leaned in close, "Don't blame yourself entirely. Aramis is fully capable of being a stubborn fool!"

Porthos shifted, the statement felt unfair given the man's inability to come to his own defense.

Athos crouched on Aramis's other side, one finger lifting the torn edges of his jacket to reveal the cut beneath. "Porthos," the man's anger landed on him, raking him once over and finding him whole and hale, "You'll have to carry him across your back. He'll do better than on a horse. The camp can't be far."

"It's not."

There were questions behind their leader's eyes but Porthos knew they would come at a different time.

"D'Artagnan, get the horses."

D'Artagnan glanced once more to Aramis and swallowed with a nod.

"Come, let's get him up. If you tire, we'll carry him between us."

Porthos wouldn't tire. He promised himself that.

They got Aramis up and over Porthos's shoulder. It wasn't dignified, but it would get them into camp faster than struggling Aramis's limp weight on and off a horse.

Athos moved ahead to check the tents until he came across the only one Porthos himself hadn't looked through. The folding desk and chair in the center and the raised cot along one wall made this clearly the home of the bandit leader. Athos beckoned to the cot and Porthos gently lowered Aramis down, a hand at the base of his neck to keep him from flopping backwards and further stressing the wound. Athos and Porthos worked together to strip him of his jacket and then Athos helped him shift Aramis so that he was settled on his chest across the cot. Outside they could hear d'Artagnan bustling around the camp, doing what he could to predict their needs.

Porthos shared a glance with Athos. No doubt the boy was struggling with misplaced guilt, otherwise he would have been in here and underfoot until someone purposefully set him to a task.

"You doing the stitches or shall I?" Porthos asked gruffly. Neither of them were skilled at the task.

"I'll get the water ready."

"So me then?"

Athos glared at their pale friend, "I am angry enough that I would just as likely tear it worse."

Porthos swallowed, "There's wine in a sack tied to my saddle."

"For you or him or me?"

"We'll have to share."

Athos drew a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't have asked." He turned away to execute a limping retreat.

Porthos watched him go and then glanced down at his unconscious friend. He could hear Aramis complaining about his poor stitching already. He patted his friend on the shoulder, "Don't worry 'Mis, won't be that bad. I've had more practice since last time."

He set a hand on his friend's forehead, worried at the low heat that radiated off his skin.


	8. Troubled

**A/N:** Unless the muse leaps off somewhere as I edit, this should be the halfway mark. Thank you to everyone, but especially to those who went back to add a review to chapter 6 – I wasn't expecting that and it was very appreciated!

TMTMTM

It was late in the afternoon by the time the task was done and their friend was firmly tucked under a layer of blankets as his body flickered hot and cold through a faint fever. Most of the wine had ended up spilled across his back and the last of it had, by mutual agreement, gone into Athos's cup until the man had stopped pacing like a caged lion with a limp.

D'Artagnan and Porthos had fetched up at the fire when Athos had finally thrown them out of the tent to stand a drunken vigil on his own.

The Gascon's face was still pinched as he poked restlessly at the fire, doing it no favors.

Porthos sighed, he was now very tired and he unconsciously rubbed his hands together where they had fallen between his knees as if he were still washing at Aramis's blood.

"It ain't your fault lad," he said, his voice laden and filled with stones.

"I knew he was wounded."

"So did he."

"But I knew it needed care."

"So did he."

"I should have insisted."

"I'm sure you would've, had you the time."

"But what if his fever gets worse? What if it doesn't break Porthos?"

Porthos tried not to think about that. "This is Aramis. How's a small fever gonna stop him?"

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to worry at the claim and Porthos glared at the younger man until he closed his jaw on the words. D'Artagnan shoved at the fire, plenty of anger in the jab and none of it directed at Porthos or the fire itself.

Porthos growled. If any of them had the right to feel guilty, it was he. He was sure Aramis would have seen to the wound that morning if he hadn't left to find food. Instead, he'd blundered off alone and Aramis had overtaxed the wound in a bid to come to his aid.

D'Artagnan poked again, the fire snapping its protest as a log shifted. Porthos surged up to stand over him. "On your feet," he growled.

"Why?" d'Artagnan glanced up.

"Because you're not getting it. You want to be angry? Fine. Be angry at somethin' other than yourself."

"Who says I can't be angry at myself?"

"It's not your damn fault, so I'm saying it. Now I said get up boy!"

D'Artagnan set his jaw and glared at Porthos. "Make me," he said.

Porthos was more than happy to oblige.

D'Artagnan knocked his hands away as Porthos fisted them in the younger man's shirt. Then the Gascon was surging to his own feet and shoving Porthos away.

Porthos lunged again and tossed the boy away from the fire with a grip on his sleeve. D'Artagnan's feet moved under him and he came back to swung at Porthos's head. Porthos ducked the blow and bowled into the man's waist. D'Artagnan allowed Porthos to push him back before he planted an elbow in his back. Porthos grunted and they broke away from each other. The raw anger in their eyes belying the familiar patterns of their sparring. Porthos swung a fist and the quick flash of d'Artagnan dodged it to land a fist of his own in Porthos's side. Porthos's next strike caught him clear on the cheek.

They traded blows back and forth until the angry edge was beaten dull, and then they both stalled with their fists in each other's collars.

Out of breath, Porthos let the boy go, feeling hollow now but somehow better.

D'Artagnan stared at him, his eyes full of storm. After a moment, he seemed to realise the purpose of all of that and then he huffed loudly, a bruise blooming across his cheek that Porthos was going to feel sorry about tomorrow.

"Better?" d'Artagnan asked out of breath, a snap in his tone but also a glimmer of cheekiness.

"You?" Porthos asked instead.

D'Artagnan ran both hands through his hair on a shaky laugh. "Yeah," he said, as if he didn't believe it himself.

"Good." Porthos said, and he cracked a small smile as he shoved d'Artagnan in the shoulder. "Now let's eat somethin'."

TMTMTM

Food proved to be a good idea, d'Artagnan had forgotten how hungry he was. Porthos too seemed to find solace in the tearing of salted pork and the portioned strips of it disappeared quickly between them. As they ate however, d'Artagnan couldn't quite keep his gaze from drifting to the tent. Porthos's physical bout of medicine had indeed gone a long way to settling his self-directed anger but it wasn't gone completely. D'Artagnan knew he would have forced Aramis down and helped their friend tend the wound, it was just that he had been so tired his thoughts hadn't been working properly. Instead, he'd fallen asleep and Aramis had been left to tend his wounds alone when it had been clear to d'Artagnan that the long cut in his back wasn't even within the man's reach.

As he chewed on his thoughts and his last helping of meat, d'Artagnan contemplated the day's events and slowly came to the realisation that there truly had been no other time to tend the injuries save that last step before he'd fallen asleep. Why hadn't Aramis insisted for his own sake? Surely the man wasn't as foolish as Porthos and Athos made to claim.

D'Artagnan forced his gaze away from the tent, his eyes instead finding the share of food they'd set aside for Athos and the smaller portion they'd set aside for Aramis should he recover sooner than they all expected.

Athos had been unconscious for last night's bread, which meant he hadn't eaten in two days.

Porthos glanced at him as d'Artagnan rose to take the man some food.

"You sure you want to go in there?" he drawled.

"He hasn't eaten in two days."

Porthos shrugged, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

D'Artagnan snorted, wanting to laugh but suddenly not finding the joke funny. He squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and brushed aside the tent flap.

The interior was dim and d'Artagnan squinted to make out the hunched form of Athos sitting backwards across the chair, one arm folded across its back, the other holding the wine bottle by the neck where it rested on the ground near his boot.

"What is it?" Athos croaked, not turning his head from where it rested on his arm as he stared down at Aramis's bandaged back.

"Food Athos," d'Artagnan said, coming over to his leader's side to shove the plate into his limp hand.

The man's fingers grabbed the plate on impulse as d'Artagnan let go. His head rolled to look at the meat and he sniffed, "Wine would have been better," he said.

"The bandit's last shot killed the wine instead of Porthos. You drank the last of what we had."

"Pity," his tone was flat.

"Porthos said the same. Less politely of course."

Athos grunted.

"Why don't you two talk it out? I can take over," d'Artagnan suggested.

"I can't even trust him to lie still on a sickbed. I refuse to take my eyes off him if I can't trust that he'll be there when I turn back." The anger was back in his words but they were also clouded with anguish. The slight slur in his voice gave d'Artagnan permission to gently grab his shoulders and guide him out of the chair.

"Come on, you're as pale as he is. Some sun will do you good," he said softly, trying not to step into the man's raw coals and restart the blaze.

Athos came away haltingly but d'Artagnan sighed in relief when he didn't fight. He pushed his mentor down onto a log near the fire and straightened the plate in his hands.

"Eat Athos, we'll make sure he doesn't go anywhere."

Athos lifted the meat to his mouth and began chewing, his actions as blurry as his gaze, his mind clearly far away.

Porthos lifted his eyebrows to d'Artagnan. His glance was spooked, clearly not expecting d'Artagnan's ability to maneuver the stubborn man. D'Artagnan snorted, shaking his head at the man's surprise. Even drunk, Athos was a rational man. Surely Porthos knew it was possible to make him see reason.

Athos lifted his head, oblivious to the moment that had passed between his comrades.

"D'Artagnan tells me the shot killed the wine in your place." Athos didn't glance at the Porthos.

Porthos shifted uncomfortably, "My gun was jammed."

"Still, I hardly think it deserved such an ungracious death. Have you seen to your weapon yet?" Eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and a maelstrom of emotion turned to pin the larger man in his seat.

Porthos looked away, his color darkening.

"Perhaps you could take the time to clean and service all our guns before we rue the fact that we have no more wine to sacrifice in our places," Athos snapped.

D'Artagnan struggled valiantly against his laughter but Porthos's stricken glare did him in and he choked. He doubled over coughing and Porthos's meaty hand slammed into his back with a touch more force than was required.

"And you, boy!" Athos rounded on him, "Who's taken the time in all of this to tend our horses? Surely I've taught you better than that."

"Now Athos, that ain't fair," Porthos said, coming quickly to d'Artagnan's defense, "You know we would have gotten to it. Besides, why do you get to play nursemaid? It was me who sewed him up."

"And it was me who should've done all of that in the first place," d'Artagnan cut in.

"Ladies," a voice rose behind them, "These are but canvas walls. If you intend to bicker away the afternoon, please do so in a place less contrary to my sleep." Aramis's tired voice cut across their charged argument and all three of them were on their feet in an instant.

For a big man, Porthos could move fast when he wanted and he was first to the door – d'Artagnan a close second with a hand on Athos's sleeve as the man took too much weight on his bad knee.

Aramis was laying across his chest on the cot, his eyes blinking in the daylight flooding through the open flap of the tent. Porthos moved quickly to his side and knelt down to the marksman's level. There was a strangled grunt on his throat and he raised a hand as if to slap their friend on the back and then, reconsidering, settled for a gentle tap high on the man's shoulder.

"Ow," Aramis said. Part jest, partly not. Just enough of the jest that d'Artagnan felt himself relax. Athos too seemed to come to the same conclusion and he sagged a bit in d'Artagnan's grip.

D'Artagnan guided Athos to the chair and stepped back to cross his arms over his chest.

Face half buried in his pillow Aramis roamed his gaze across each of them in turn. Expressive face flooding with relief on Porthos, concern on Athos, and something d'Artagnan couldn't define when the man's brown eyes fell on him.

He still hadn't tried to sit up and d'Artagnan took that to mean he was feeling enough pain to know better than to try. There was color in his cheeks again and not the high points of heat. His fever had subsided.

He cleared his throat. "Water would be good," he rasped, his eyes rolling playful exasperation. Porthos leapt to it.

Aramis didn't fight to sit up even then and Porthos guided the waterskin to his lips.

His eyes closed tiredly, one long blink. "D'Artagnan," he said, his voice more firm than his gaze, which was soft and indefinable again. "I am sorry my friend, I should've woken you." He sighed heavily, "I didn't mean to cause you guilt."

"But grief. You're ok with causing grief," Athos said.

"Not now Athos, let it go," Porthos said.

"No damn you I will not!" He turned back to Aramis. The marksman's brow had knit on tired confusion. "Your foolishness nearly killed you," he snapped, "More than once yesterday I will add. If you cared even a little you would take that seriously." He pushed to his feet and turned his back on all of them, limping stiffly out of the tent.

They all looked after him, silence descending. Then Porthos shifted, "Don't mind him Aramis. He's in his cups."

But, by the stricken look on Aramis's face, d'Artagnan wasn't sure the man would manage to brush it off so simply and the relief he had felt a moment before teetered on a new precipice.


	9. Troubled, Pt 2

**A/N:** Edits might go a tad slower for the next few chapters, we'll see.

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TMTMTM

As d'Artagnan had suspected, neither man was willing to let the matter rest. For the remainder of the day and even far into the day after, Athos stayed angry and distant, the dark cloud of brooding hanging over his head even without the aid of wine. Aramis for his part grew increasingly quiet until Porthos was convinced he was hiding some other injury that was slowly killing him. He roped d'Artagnan into helping him strip the marksman down on the pretense of giving him a sponge bath, but the exercise only proved to drive Aramis into a darker mood while showing that indeed there were no other wounds save the two, both healing well now. D'Artagnan, however, suffered a moment of shock as the dressing around Aramis's bicep came free to reveal the stitched gash that had clearly been sewn single-handed with no one to help press the wound together.

Aramis seemed too lost in his own thoughts to notice d'Artagnan's freeze of horror, but maybe it hadn't gone unnoticed completely because Porthos joined him at the fire afterwards.

"He admitted he thought you were too tired to do any better," Porthos said with a sniff.

Had he been that tired? D'Artagnan couldn't remember.

He thought about shoving the stick into the coals again and instead tossed the whole thing to the flames.

"At least he can't complain about my stitches anymore," Porthos said gruffly.

And that was how he knew Porthos was feeling it too.

The next day Aramis was up on his feet, albeit gingerly and still more quiet than was healthy, and the day after that he declared himself fit enough to ride, to which Athos snorted loudly and made no other comment.

They had discussed their plans the previous day, deciding that they would ride to the nearest town and ask around about the man they were looking for. After all, even delayed as they were, they still had a signet ring to recover.

The ride back to a recognizable road and along it to the next village proved long and silent. None of the lighthearted banter present that had become a staple on their journeys.

D'Artagnan had finally decided to worry about Aramis's state of mind when he glanced back to find the man pale and sweating beneath his hat, his long fingers tangled in the reins and almost as white as his face.

D'Artagnan dropped back a bit to bring his horse level with Aramis, their knees bumping as he leaned over to catch the man's elbow. The man was stiff beneath his grip, not limp as he'd feared. He opened his mouth to suggest a stop.

"Don't," Aramis hissed under his breath.

D'Artagnan glanced at him in surprise.

"If we have to stop now then he wins," he said quietly. His dark eyes square on Athos's back where the man was riding point.

"But if you tear your stitches or fall off your horse he wins again," d'Artagnan whispered back, not entirely believing he was having this conversation.

Aramis groaned, "The village can't be too far now."

"Aramis we don't even know if there _is_ a village."

The marksman's look was withering, "Roads always go somewhere."

"Aramis you're over-taxed already. We should have stopped ages ago."

"I'll be fine," he growled a little more loudly.

"Oh? What's this I hear?" came Athos's voice from the front. The man didn't turn in his saddle. "Have you blown all of your stitches yet Aramis?" he called louder.

Aramis stiffened, "Hardly Athos," he quipped back, "I was merely telling d'Artagnan here that I think your pace too slow! The faster we recover the Duc's signet ring the sooner we're back in Paris."

Porthos grumbled something unintelligible.

D'Artagnan swallowed the fold in his stomach.

"So I should call a halt to delay us further then!" Athos said, reining his horse to a stop. He glanced back to Porthos. "See to him Porthos. I'm going to scout ahead." And he kicked his horse back into motion, leaving them behind.

Porthos dismounted and circled his horse around to join them, looking up at Aramis.

"Dumb fool," he said, "you shouldn't provoke him like that."

Aramis's smile was cracked and hollow at best, "I can't help it. He's so irritating when he's like that."

Porthos pointed a finger at him, "That's a sure fire way to make it worse. Now can you dismount or d'you need d'Artagnan to help?"

"Can't I just stay here?"

"What happens when your horse gets bored and wanders out from under you as it goes for grass? If you fall off, Athos will have more to lord over you when he comes back."

Aramis ground his teeth, "Who in their right mind would want more of that." He sighed heavily, "D'Artagnan, if you would please…"

TMTMTM

Athos breathed into the brittle winter air as he let his horse have its head. He wrestled his anger for a ways and finally gave in to the motions of the ride, the rhythms of the canter matching the beat of his heart. He took solace in the fact that Porthos and d'Artagnan would care for Aramis even when Aramis himself would not, though that in itself was a driving source of his anger.

Had he not lost enough in his life? Sometimes it was difficult not to wish to have never known them rather than to envision them falling at his side. The rational part of his mind chided him for such a silly sentiment; they were, after all, soldiers. They would all die one day and that day was likely to be premature given their profession.

But he had reached the end of his patience with how readily his friend seemed to wish his life cast aside. Aramis had always been passionate and headstrong – quick to leap into danger and faster to leap to someone's defense. But none of those traits need equate foolish stupidity Athos decided with a mental growl. If that was how it was going to be, then Athos wasn't going to stand in his way.

Only… stepping back to let his friend fall had proven harder than he'd wanted. In fact, in that moment he'd rather have been anywhere else.

Now free of the situation and riding alone along the road, the thought of letting Aramis fall to his own foolishness was no easier than before, but at least now, he was nowhere near to act on his constant impulses to reach out and catch him when he did.

The tangle of that need and his anger made him shake his head, though there was no one around to read the gesture.

Separating the two contrary impulses proved an impossible task and Athos heartily wished for a bottle of wine to drown the headache the war of it made behind his eyes.

Finally, the road around him changed from tree-lined to open pasture and a cluster of buildings appeared ahead.

Athos took up the reins to pause a moment as he scouted the village from a distance. The view before him was typical of a backcountry village. The fields to either side of the road were fallow this time of season – the harvesting done for the year. Smoke trailed up out of chimneys as the populace hunkered down with indoor pursuits; mending, weaving, crafting, storing, and preserving. Likely, whatever tavern or inn this place held would be full as the villagers unwound from a backbreaking season and worked themselves up for the harshness of winter to come.

Athos debating turning around to rejoin with the others but his skin felt strangely raw at the thought. Instead, he clicked his horse forward to at least discover if this hovel had an inn and if it had rooms to spare.

The village did indeed have an inn, and just as Athos had predicted it was full to the brim with village folk and farmers.

Athos scanned the patrons as he found one of the last remaining tables. It wasn't his first pick of places, he usually preferred an out of the way table with his back to a solid structure and a good view of the room, but in this circumstance he was happy enough to have a seat at all as his knee wouldn't let him stay standing for long.

A young serving girl noted his presence and slipped between two boisterous tables to ask what he wanted.

"Wine, food, and a room with more than one bed if that's at all possible," he said sliding across three coins that he hoped would cover his order. He had no doubt she would tell him if it did not.

The girl, who was likely no more than sixteen, eyed him up and down. Athos arched an eyebrow, daring her to comment. With his clothing caked in dried mud and his hair slick with grease and travel, he knew he barely looked capable of paying for anything. But the coins on the table did their part and she nodded and scooped them up as she left.

He settled in to wait and was surprised when she returned a moment later with a bottle of wine and a comment that the food would be along shortly. Athos uncorked the wine and poured a generous serving into the earthenware cup the girl had provided.

The first mouthful was heaven on his raw throat, and three swallows later the war behind his eyes rounded off to the comfortable haze of gun smoke.

He was a third of the way through the wine when his food arrived. Steam rose from the bowl of stew, or soup he supposed since it wasn't thick enough to be called stew. Still the aroma wasn't unpleasant and it was clearly hot – better than he'd had in days.

It was as he was raising the first spoonful to his lips that he sensed someone behind him – too close. Athos reached for his hilt and stiffened as the cold edge of a knife pressed against his throat.

The man behind him clapped him on the shoulder, "What a surprise to find you here friend!" the familiar voice said, loud enough that no one in the busy common room questioned or even glanced over.

Athos readied himself.

"Oh. I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said quietly, leaning over his shoulder. A green jewelled ring flashed on the man's hand as he directed Athos's gaze to the other end of the room where a shadowed man held a corner seat. A pistol set easily across his lap and pointing at the unawares serving girl. "Wouldn't want to make a scene. Those can be so very messy."

"What do you want?" Athos asked, laying off for now and letting that show by turning his palms up on the table.

"That's complicated, but how about we go somewhere quiet to talk it out. Resist and she dies first."

"Alright you have my word. This place was too crowded for my tastes anyway."

The man slapped his shoulder and the knife disappeared from his neck as the man tugged him to his feet. The knife appeared a moment later against his back as he guided Athos towards the back door.

The door emptied out onto a narrow thoroughfare between the inn and its neighboring outbuildings. Evening had taken hold over the past hour and under the cover of cloud, it seemed as if night had fallen early. Athos scanned the alley, seeing no one in the shadows.

He knew this was his moment.

Something heavy cracked across the back of his head and muzzle flashes blazed behind his eyes as he descended into pounding war and darkness.


	10. Dire Straits

**A/N:** I shameless borrowed from history for this chapter: Montmorency's story is in fact a real one(and an interesting one for those curious enough to go looking). The best part is I barely had to smudge the dates since his execution privately took place in Toulouse in October of 1632.

To everyone who I can't respond to directly for all your wonderfully encouraging reviews – thank you!

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TMTMTM

Athos sputtered as a dousing of tepid water roused him from unconsciousness. He blinked into his surroundings, realising he was kneeling on a dirt floor, his hands tied behind his back. A lantern glowed atop a barrel nearby and in front of him, the tied loop of a noose dangled from the rafters above. Pale light sliced through the darkness from a window high overhead and thick beams stood in stark relief, but the light didn't reach the floor and only the candlelight flickered at shifting shadows.

Athos wasn't sure if he was alone but he tried his bonds anyways. A soft chuckle drifted from somewhere behind him and to the left. Three men stepped part way out of the shadows, pistols cradled across their chests, a silent warning.

Athos sighed and hung his head a little, trying not to feel the pounding cannons behind his eyes. At that moment, they were making a mockery of the day's earlier battle.

"Welcome to your reckoning!" The tall leader of the bandits stepped around him and into the lamplight with a wide sweep of his arms.

Full in view for the first time, Athos examined the man's face. The man wasn't much older than Aramis, darkened brown hair straight and cut to his jaw line, his face bearing a distinctive scar that carved from the point of his cheek downwards in an arc to the bottom of his ear. In this light, his eyes were dark but Athos remembered they were grey blue from where they'd peered over the edge of a scarf.

"Thinking to find me again? How optimistic of you." The man smiled.

"You had what you wanted, you should have run when you had the chance." Athos met the man's stare, making the threat clear in his gaze.

The man's face twisted, "I don't think so. This isn't over."

"Then I would know the name of my abductor," Athos said.

"Fine. A trade then, your name for mine."

Athos straightened, "Athos of the King's Musketeers."

The man dipped in a mocking bow, "Valençay, your executioner."

_Valençay_, that name rang familiar somehow. "Do you always make for such polite company monsieur?" he asked the man dryly, hoping to stall as he cast around for a plan, or maybe so the others could arrive at the inn and discover he'd gone missing – though what that would grant him was nebulous at best seeing as he wasn't at the inn now. No, he would have to escape this himself.

"Only when in such esteemed company, Comte."

Athos froze.

"Oh come now, your bearing isn't so hard to spot even in a mud wallow. Though I take it, Comte was a good guess?"

Guess or not Athos couldn't shake the flickers of dread that rose at the idea that he had known this man in his previous life. Suddenly the noose hanging before him held darker connotations. But no, that had to be a coincidence.

One coincidence too many… Athos slammed the door on his rational mind right there. This was not the time or the place.

Valençay chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped closer, "You'll have to forgive me, I have a fondness for playing games. I must say, you and your men proved very challenging opponents. I'll admit, I underestimated your capabilities. An oversight I'm looking to correct." The man's face contorted – the flip from congenial to enraged dizzying to watch.

The man reached forward and fisted a hand in Athos's collar. His other hand was lightning fast as it slammed into the side of Athos's face.

Colors burst in Athos's vision as his head snapped back. He cursed at his own surprise, wishing he'd had a chance to brace for it. Athos rolled his head forward and let the second blow come, knowing the man wasn't finished yet. Blood ran down the back of his throat and across his lip. The final blow landed in his ribs and doubled him over, struggling to breathe through blood and pain.

The man jerked him upright, "They were good men, every one of them. And now you'll pay for their deaths."

Athos turned and spat blood on the ground. "That's what this is about?" he scoffed, "You seemed willing enough to put them in harm's way. Maybe you should have chosen a different profession."

"I might've once. But that was before the King gave Richelieu the keys to France."

"You were a supporter of Duc de Montmorency," it was a small revelation but still it served to paint the picture. _Valençay_, why was that name familiar? Athos was sure this man held no place in his past and yet the name – a brother perhaps?

"Montmorency wasn't a traitor. He was the only man who could see the poison for what it was! If France is to be saved, then Richelieu must die."

Athos snorted, "And you're the man who's going to make that happen? Montmorency was executed for treason, for raising an army and for fighting against the King's own forces alongside the Duc d'Orléans. Raising civil war by no means carries the interests of France at heart. Whatever allegiance you held to Montmorency should have died with him."

"He was a hero!" Valençay hissed, "For years he fought in the King's name – why would a man like that throw away his values. What he did was for the good of France. It falls to us to succeed in his place. We'll build a France that is strong and proud! Free of the Cardinal's skirts." The man stepped back, "It's a shame you won't get to see it Athos of the King's Musketeers." He snapped his fingers at the men behind him, "Prepare the horses."

"That's why you stole the Duc's signet ring? To assume his authority? That ring means nothing without a title. The Duc's title falls to his sister and through it to the King's cousin the Prince of Condé. It is worthless to you."

"You know so little Athos. But I'm not going to explain it. Soon you'll be dead and you won't ever see me again. I can promise you that." He turned and snatched the noose out of the air.

Athos met Valençay's gaze. "One day I'm going to kill you."

"I had thought you might feel that way." He jerked the rope around Athos's head. "I believe the principle is, not if I kill you first," he gestured to where his man was securing the opposite end of the rope to a team of horses.

Valençay grabbed the front of Athos's jacket and dragged him to his feet. He leaned into Athos's space, "I'm going to enjoy watching you hang. Don't worry, I won't make this quick."

Valençay stepped back and swept his finger once through the air. Athos jerked against his ties, shocked at how quickly he'd run out of time.

There was the snap of a whip and the horses stepped forward.

Athos struggled harder as the rope around his neck pulled taught. In moments, the noose was tight under his chin and he felt the pressure on his spine as the rope pulled him up. He lifted to the balls of his feet, still grasping at the air as the noose closed around his throat.

The bandit leader held up his hand and the men drew the horses to a stop. Athos gasped and choked in turn. All of his weight balanced on his toes while pain lanced up and down his spine and drove a spike through his battered knee. The man stepped back to watch him struggle, one finger tapping his chin and a smile lifting the scar on his cheek.

"Watching this is almost more entertaining than doing it myself," he mused. "You wouldn't understand that would you? Hmm, maybe you would if only you knew. You were drowning yourself so readily in your wine that I figured you did know. But looking at you now I'm not so sure."

Athos gasped, finding another swallow of air past the bite of the rope.

"You see, I knew you and your men would follow, so I arranged for an ambush on the road. No doubt, your friends found it in your place. I admit I would've been disappointed had you not stumbled into the inn – the ambush was a tactic of efficiency, but it left me feeling unsatisfied. As if another man were to finish our game of chess. Still it was a shame really, I so would've liked to take them apart myself. Especially that lean one with the feathered hat. I found him particularly skilled with that rifle of his and particularly taxing for it."

"You're lying," Athos managed to choke out.

"You'll never know will you? But I'll tell you what," he said softly. He stepped up to stand directly in front of Athos, "I know you're good at this. I'll look you straight in the face and you can tell me if I'm lying."

Athos felt his stomach roll.

Valençay grabbed Athos by the jaw and forced his head down to look him straight in the eye, "Your men are dead Athos. Just like mine."

Steady, cold, _honest_.

_No!_

"No," Athos growled, jerking against his bonds, feeling the ropes burn across his skin.

"There it is… a shadow of my own despair. Enjoy your last moments Athos." The man patted his cheek and turned away. He tossed his hand in the air and the men urged the horses back into motion.


	11. Ambush

**A/N:** I humbly apologise for the evil cliffhanger of the previous chapter… and find myself humbly apologising again for this chapter, which… well… you'll see.

* * *

TMTMTM

_Earlier…_

It took both of them, and a great deal of debate, to get Aramis off his horse in one piece. By the time they got him safely on his feet and he was steady enough to bare weight on his weakened limbs, the forest around them had stilled in a way that spurred Aramis's instincts. He paused for a breath, reaching past the ache of his wounds to realise that the timber of the silence had changed.

Something was wrong.

He scanned the trees, and instantly began picking out shapes that weren't long and straight like the trees themselves. Ambush.

He stumbled – a ruse not so difficult to make real in his state. D'Artagnan and Porthos crowded in to catch him and under his breath he said, "Don't look now but we're about to be ambushed."

D'Artagnan stiffened but Porthos leaned close, his grip growing stronger.

"Where?" he breathed.

With his head tipped to his chest and the brim of his hat hiding his eyes, Aramis mentally marked his targets. "Two ahead and one behind."

Aloud, he groaned for effect letting his head roll back, counting again, one, two, three, and four?

"Might be one farther out," he said dipping his head to d'Artagnan's shoulder, "Your man's on the right. Let Porthos take the one behind us."

"When?" d'Artagnan whispered, his slender frame vibrating like a struck bell.

"_Now._"

The three of them burst into motion, three pistols coming up in unison and spitting fire. The explosive bang spooked the horses and echoed through the trees. Aramis didn't watch his target fall. He didn't doubt his friends had found theirs. He drew his second pistol and pulled the trigger.

Far into the trees, the fourth man sighting down his rifle jerked just as the slow match lit the pan. Gunpowder flared and the shot fired wide into the trees.

The fast draw jarred across Aramis's back worse than he expected and the next thing he registered was the snow-dusted grit beneath his cheek where he laid collapsed at the roadside – apparently, someone had failed to catch him.

Had he missed one? Had there been a fifth? He didn't remember the sound of another shot but then he didn't remember collapsing either. He tried to push himself up, to make sure that Porthos and d'Artagnan were all right. His limbs felt like wet cloth. A beat later strong hands were gripping his shoulders and rolling him over.

"No no no… Aramis. Aramis?" Porthos was gasping as if his lungs were already failing him. Aramis's stomach clenched and he clutched at Porthos's sleeve, trying to see the blood that would tell him where his friend was hit.

The man's chest was so goddamn wide it took him a full two count to assure himself that all he was seeing was dried mud.

"You're not hit," Aramis croaked, relief turning his arms back to liquid.

"Neither are you," Porthos grunted, clearly having done his own panicked search. He leaned back. There was a smile on his face and he clapped Aramis on the shoulder.

Aramis grunted. "Ow. Mind the stitches. Where's d'Artagnan?"

"The horses…"

Aramis rolled his eyes, "Help me up."

"Maybe you should stay there."

"Help me up or I'll get there myself."

Porthos crossed his arms, one corner of his mouth turning down. "The point of stopping was to let you rest."

"Porthos this ground is cold."

"I could lend you my cloak."

"_Porthos!_"

"D'Artagnan can handle it. He knows how to round up horses."

Aramis gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his knees, hissing through the raw fire of his back. "It's not the horses I'm worried about," he said, short on breath, "Though we'll need those too… if we're going to be of any use to Athos."

"You ain't in any condition to go riding anywhere."

"You're right. I'm probably better off walking." Aramis found his feet and stood for a moment with black spots floating in his vision. Damn he really was tired. This was going to be harder than he thought.

Porthos was nearly standing on top of him, his arms loose at his sides in a way that suggested he was ready to catch him this time if he decided to pass out again.

"Is there any of that salted pork left?" Aramis asked, knowing at least he had a cure for the light-headedness.

"In the saddlebags."

Aramis sighed, "I'm looking forward to a time when that statement doesn't prove to be an inconvenience."

TMTMTM

The first confirmation they had that Athos had fallen prey to a similar danger as had found them on the road came with the discovery of his horse in the stable of the inn when there was no sign of the man in the common room or the rooms above.

Aramis sidled up to the young girl at the counter and asked after his description. She pointed to the back door saying he had gone with a friend and hadn't come back though he'd barely touched his food, a fact she seemed to sniff at as if it were the greatest insult to the establishment.

"I'm sure he had a mind to finish it," he said, "Probably just got distracted."

"Well it's cold now but he's welcome to it. The pigs will get it otherwise."

"Right. I'll let him know." Aramis tipped his hat to the girl and moved towards the door, tilting his head for Porthos and d'Artagnan to follow. The other two broke away from the table they'd staked to weave through the crowded space.

"Apparently he left with friends," Aramis said as they joined him near the exit. He and Porthos shared a look.

"Well at least they didn't steal his horse this time," d'Artagnan said.

Aramis and Porthos turned to him as one.

D'Artagnan glanced between them. "If they'd stolen his horse we never would have known where to start looking," he huffed, as if his logic should have been obvious.

"Right, 'cept we haven't found him yet," Porthos said.

"We'd better get on that, I have a bad feeling about this," Aramis muttered.

Porthos brushed past him to go through the door, "You and your damn feelings," he said in passing.

D'Artagnan caught Aramis's sleeve as he moved to follow the larger man, "Aramis, maybe you should stay here."

Aramis glared at the younger man, "Not going to happen."

"But in a way Athos was right, you shouldn't needlessly endanger yourself. Porthos and I can handle this."

"I'm fit enough for this and I'll be even better after we find Athos. So let's get started shall we?"

In truth, he was in pain and exhausted in a way that was making his vision swim, but there was a hum of urgency singing through his veins and he knew he had reserves enough to last him through a fight. After that? Well, so long as he didn't pass out at Athos's feet, he was sure he'd be fine.

Outside, the stars were shining and the night air felt the coldest it had been since their horses had been kidnapped at the last inn.

The three musketeers scanned the alley searching for anything out of place.

"Look!" d'Artagnan bent to retrieve Athos's hat where it was cast on the ground between the buildings.

Porthos growled low in his throat.

"They can't have gone far," Aramis said, eyes scanning the outbuilding beside them, which looked like a storehouse or maybe a granary – it was hard to tell without light to see.

And then, out of the night, came the crack of a whip.

All three of them shared a weighted glance. Porthos and d'Artagnan leapt off in the direction of the sound, Aramis a beat behind.

They moved down the narrow gap in the buildings towards a courtyard. As they reached the corner, d'Artagnan sucked himself back against the wall as he spotted something in the darkness ahead. Porthos and Aramis joined him.

"The barn across the yard," d'Artagnan whispered, "there are two men guarding the doors."

"Pistols?" Porthos asked.

D'Artagnan glanced out and leaned back, "Can't tell but I'd wager yes."

"Thought you two said you'd gotten them all 'cept the leader," Porthos grumbled.

"We did. Obviously there are more," Aramis said.

"Perhaps they had arranged to meet another group here after they got what they wanted," d'Artagnan mused.

Aramis clapped Porthos on the shoulder, "I'll distract them. You two circle around."

"Aramis…" Porthos growled, the word conveying the frown Aramis couldn't see.

"Athos isn't going to wait all night. I'm good at this remember?" Aramis pushed away from the wall. He pulled his hat rakishly across one eye and affected a drunken saunter as he stepped into the cobbled square.

With his cloak wrapped around him and the darkness masking the blue of his garb, he quickly became just another drunken patron stumbling into the brusque night on a quest for the latrines. He felt more than heard Porthos and d'Artagnan disappear behind him and he turned his attention to the two men guarding the barn door. They didn't react to his staggering approach until he was halfway across the yard. Then one of them stepped forward, hand clearly at his belt and clasping around the butt of a pistol.

"Hey you, piss post's the other way," the man said, his posture square-on in challenge.

Aramis stumbled a pace closer and blurrily tilted his head to look at the man, "Hmm? What's that?" he slurred.

"I said you're going the wrong way. Take a piss somewhere else."

Aramis paused, teetering on his feet, "The girl said… out back… isn't this out back? You're here too. Seems t'me every man's gotta empty to put more in, right?"

The man drew his pistol and held it at his side, "Go away or I'll arrange for it permanently."

Aramis used his drunken teeter to off balance and stagger another step. He held up his hands, "Whoa whoa whoa, we're all friends here. I can see you fellas haven't had enough yet. I still got coin, look I'll buy you a drink." Aramis patted himself down on a hunt for imaginary coin, surreptitiously watching the darkness behind the second man move as d'Artagnan approached out of the shadows.

Aramis slid his hand into his cloak, meaning to reach for his gun when there was a loud bang as Porthos buried a shot in the man's back. The man jerked, gurgling his surprise. D'Artagnan clubbed the man's companion in the back of the head and both men folded onto the cobblestones.

There was a shout from inside the barn. Porthos surged towards the door, Aramis doing his best to be right behind him, drawing his pistols as he went.

Porthos kicked through the door and ducked aside at a flash of gunpowder and a concussive blast echoed from inside. D'Artagnan took his place in the doorway and fired. A muffled yell signalled the hit. The younger man charged in, sword ringing from its sheath. Aramis burst in on his heels, guns up, eyes scanning.

The interior of the barn was dim, one candle casting a pool of orange light from atop a barrel.

Two men spilled out of shadowed stalls along either wall but Aramis's gaze was caught on the rope that hung looped around the rafters in the center of the barn – Athos's limp form hanging on its end.

Aramis swallowed his heart and took aim at the rope, praying that the drag of Athos's boot tips across the hard-packed dirt was more than the aimless swinging of a corpse.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan yelled. The warning too late.

The nearest bandit swung his rifle. The wooden stalk slammed across the back of Aramis's shoulders. Stars burst in his vision. His shot went wide.

He fell to one knee, struggling to breathe, to make his arms move. The roaring in his ears eclipsed the chaos around him and he scrabbled at the edge of consciousness.

A detached part of his mind noted the warm trickle of blood down his back and the contained fire of d'Artagnan fighting a man to his right, the pair of them trading blows and parries through the darkness. His vision narrowed to flashes of light across the buckles and buttons on Athos's coat. Without a care to the enemy at his back, Aramis forced his arm up and fired his second pistol – praying that it would be enough.


	12. Damaged

**A/N:** A huge thank you to everyone I can't respond to directly!

* * *

TMTMTM

Porthos kicked the barn door open and spun out of the way as his hair stood on end – a flash of powder roaring in the same breath. The sound of the shot shattered the last vestiges of quiet night and drove Porthos's stomach to his throat as he noted how close that had been.

D'Artagnan stepped up, taking his place to fire his own weapon into the darkness. There was a cry and the boy rushed in. Aramis slipped in on the Gascon's heels, both pistols in hand. Porthos drew his sword and followed, breathing a curse at the eagerness of his injured friend.

The space was dark and his vision took a moment to adjust.

He heard the ring of steel as d'Artagnan engaged with someone to the right.

Another man burst out of the shadows next to Aramis, swinging a rifle like a club. Porthos stepped forward to aid his friend. Aramis didn't turn to meet the threat. Instead, his friend seemed unaware, his focus locked on something at the center of the barn, his body rigid, his arm up and aiming. Porthos glanced across the space and froze as he saw what his friend was so desperately focused on.

In the center of the barn, Athos hung by a noose around his neck, his boots brushing the dirt floor.

Aramis grunted as the man's strike connected. He went down on one knee, his shot missing entirely.

Porthos's vision shifted red. His heart thudded its raw fury in his ears, singing through his limbs. He charged at the man who was levelling a second blow at Aramis. He grabbed the man's arm and shoved it aside, slamming his fist across the man's brow. He dragged the bandit to the ground, his sword finding the man's throat with a savage thrust. Porthos scanned the darkened stalls for more men to kill, daring any man to strike his wounded friend again. Beside him, Aramis forced his other arm up, a breath hissing past his lips.

The shake in his hand stilled and the marksman fired his last shot.

The rope snapped and Athos dropped.

Next to them, d'Artagnan ducked his opponent's sweep and came up thrusting the point of his sword through the base of the man's chin. He tore his blade free as he stepped past and rushed to Athos's side.

Aramis was struggling to stand, his eyes fixed on the scene.

Porthos put a hand under his arm to help him, feeling through the contact his friend's desperate need to be at there, to be useful.

"Does he live?" Aramis managed to grit out.

D'Artagnan cut Athos's bonds with his sword and dropped the weapon to press both hands against the man's face. Long fingers tapped at his cheeks. The boy was breathing in gasps. "Athos. Athos, come on. Wake up. Please Athos."

Then at the far side of the barn, Porthos glimpsed a shadow dart out from behind two tethered horses.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos bellowed. He left Aramis to surge forwards. His hand reaching for his dagger.

The shadow straightened, the barrel of a pistol coming up as d'Artagnan pushed to his feet. The sound roared into the space, the flash blinding. The shot buried itself high in d'Artagnan's chest. The boy twisted away with a cry. Staggering a step then collapsing.

Porthos threw his dagger. The shadowed figure hissed as the knife whistled past and disappeared into the darkness behind.

The man turned and leapt onto the nearest horse. He kicked it into a rearing charge. The big animal thudded past d'Artagnan and barreled straight for Porthos and Aramis and the open door behind them.

Candlelight flashed across steel as the bandit leader raised his sword. Porthos brought up his guard and deflected the man's strike, his arm going numb with the force. The horse thundered past and Porthos turned, feeling a flood of panic for Aramis behind him. Aramis dodged the charging horse by throwing himself to the side and flattening against the stall doors. Hooves pounded the ground where he had been a moment before.

Horse and rider wheeled through the barn door and out into the night.

Porthos cursed and reached for his pistol. Realising as he drew a bead that he'd already used his shot. He flipped his gun up and cursed again.

Aramis staggered past him, not caring that their quarry was once again making good his escape. He fell to his knees next to d'Artagnan, hands fumbling with the buckle on his belt.

D'Artagnan was still conscious. He had pushed himself upright and was reaching towards Athos. The boy blinked tears out of his eyes and Porthos wasn't sure if they were a reflection of the pain that had swept a pale hand across his face or a consequence of his sorrow.

Aramis unwound the sash from his hip and balled the fabric against d'Artagnan's shoulder.

"No Aramis," d'Artagnan gasped, "Help Athos."

"Quiet," Aramis said. He wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and pressed with the heel of his hand against the wound.

D'Artagnan cried out, arching against Aramis's grip, his right hand fisting in Athos's coat where the man lay beside them.

Porthos stood fast, fists clenched at his sides, feeling abraded and raw. Anger burned through his veins, the jagged need of it setting him grossly out of place in the tableau before him. The adrenaline in his heart was urging him to go; to leave and not wake up to the reality before him. There was no rational part of his mind to point out that the anger was the shield that he had set between himself and the dread of loss.

"Go Porthos." Aramis said glancing up, "I'll take care of d'Artagnan. Take the other horse and catch that bastard."

Porthos didn't need telling twice. He had three good reasons right in front of him to run that bastard through. Hell, he even had a few good reasons waiting in the wings. He strode across the barn and swung onto the remaining horse. He kicked it into motion and galloped after the man, visions of his fallen brothers spurring him into the night.


	13. All for One and One for All

TMTMTM

Amongst soldiers there was a saying. To save a friend put a brother in peril.

And perhaps it was more of a truth, something that all men of the sword came to understand. It definitely wasn't something to be said out loud – men who did were often broken, outcast, alone and divided from their comrades. The act of all for one and one for all was simply understood, and no musketeer questioned another's volunteer. But always it led to difficult choices. Was it truly all for one or was the risk of saving one for the loss of all too great a price?

For the third time in as many days, Aramis made a choice. The choice to leave Porthos in the swamp while he tended Athos had been easy – he'd known Porthos would make it. The choice to tend his brothers before himself had been automatic. But this choice, this choice was hard.

"No Aramis," d'Artagnan gasped, "Help Athos."

"Quiet," Aramis said. He worked to tend d'Artagnan's wound, trying not to think of Athos lying beside them. A part of him understood that he had chosen to lose one brother instead of two, and another part of him understood that he made this choice for Athos, for what his friend would feel if a brother died in his place.

He wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and pressed with the heel of his hand against the blood that spilled down the boy's chest. D'Artagnan cried out, arching against Aramis's grip, his right hand fisting in Athos's coat.

Porthos stood fast behind them, a sharp energy to his gaze that told Aramis the shield of his anger was pulling him away.

"Go Porthos," Aramis glanced up, trying to convey his understanding, "I'll take care of d'Artagnan. Take the other horse and catch that bastard."

Porthos didn't argue. He strode across the barn and swung onto the remaining horse. He kicked it into motion and galloped after the man, leaving Aramis alone with all of his choices.

"Aramis… please…" d'Artagnan strained, his breathing ragged.

The shot was high on the left, just below the collarbone. There was no exit wound. The ball hadn't gone through. Aramis needed to get d'Artagnan back to the inn. There would be a bed, water, linens.

"Aramis!" d'Artagnan hissed.

Aramis wrapped his sash around d'Artagnan's chest and over his shoulder, cinching it tight. "You're bleeding badly. If you can apply pressure to the wound I'll check on Athos."

D'Artagnan let go of Athos and pressed his hand against his shoulder, his breath hitching.

Aramis leaned over his pale friend, his own lungs starved for air. He lifted the man's head to free him of the rope that was still around his neck. He felt his own spur of anger at the marks across his skin. He set a hand on his friend's chest, leaning down to put his cheek near the man's face, praying for the brush of air across his skin. There. Like an angel swept between them – feather light. He was alive. God, he was alive.

Aramis set his forehead against Athos's brow, letting the words of a prayer flow past his lips.

"No… no it can't be," d'Artagnan whispered, folding double. Aramis leapt to catch him.

"He lives. D'Artagnan he lives!"

"What?" d'Artagnan gasped.

"He lives. I had not thought it but he lives, thank God."

D'Artagnan sagged in his arms, turning his head into the crook of Aramis's neck. "I thought…"

"I know… shh shhh, I'm sorry. I'm sorry d'Artagnan."

Beside them, their friend finally stirred. His throat working before his body jerked on a violent cough. He rolled to his side, coughing and choking on air as if he had been breathing water. He fell back, a sheen of sweat suddenly on his skin. Aramis reached out to steady his friend, placing his hand high on his breast where it wouldn't impact any possible injuries to his ribs.

D'Artagnan was still leaning against Aramis's chest but he made an effort to straighten, "Athos?" he asked.

Athos blinked into the darkness overhead, "d'Artagnan…" his brow knit.

"We're here Athos," Aramis said, "though you must wake fully my friend."

"Aramis…" his throat worked, his voice sounded raw and out of character, "Porthos?"

"Retrieving the Duc's signet ring. He'll be back soon."

"So… nobody's dead then…"

"I thought you were dead," d'Artagnan said, his breathing labored.

The glaze across Athos's blue eyes seemed to fade. "I thought the same," he said gruffly.

"Athos can you walk? We need to get d'Artagnan to the inn. Now."

Their leader's glance turned sharp and the situation seemed to catch up to him, eyes hitching on the sash tied across d'Artagnan's shoulder and the way he was propped against Aramis chest.

"I'll manage. Go," he said, waving his hand.

Aramis steeled himself and pushed to his feet. The world shifted a moment as his own injuries protested the action. He breathed through the sensation and reached down to slide a hand beneath d'Artagnan's arm, "Up we go. Steady now." Aramis grunted as the line of fire across his back flared as he dragged a shaking d'Artagnan to his feet. The boy wobbled, breathing in strained gasps as the color leached from his face.

"That's it, breathe through it."

"Hurts."

"I know, but we'll have you sorted in no time, let's just get to the inn first alright?"

Aramis pulled d'Artagnan towards the barn door, a firm hand under his right arm to steady him. The boy began to resist as they reached the threshold.

"Athos?" Aramis called back, wishing he could be in two places at once.

"Just… give me a moment."

"No Athos, now. We're not leaving you behind."

The tension eased out of d'Artagnan's arm as Aramis hit on the issue.

The boy panted a breath and swallowed, "He's right Athos."

There was a groan from behind them and a scraping sound. Aramis glanced back to watch Athos drag himself upright with the aid of the barrel, the mark around his neck visible briefly in the candlelight then hidden again by his cravat as he stood. He limped towards them, one arm braced around his middle. Aramis logged the knowledge away for later, suspecting there were indeed ribs to attend to.

"Let's go make use of that room I paid for," Athos croaked as he limped past. He led the way across the courtyard, and Aramis left him to the task of requesting the aid they would require from the inn's wait staff as he struggled to conserve what little strength he had left. He tried hard not to think about the task ahead. He steered d'Artagnan towards the stairs, letting the monumental challenge of climbing them distract him from what would be required when they reached their room. Behind them Athos was ordering hot water and offering to pay for clean linens.

"Athos, my kit," he called; he would have no strength to fetch it himself. Athos glanced back at them and nodded.

D'Artagnan stumbled for the first stair and Aramis helped him, for his own part relying heavily on a hand against the wall to steady them both.

D'Artagnan clenched his jaw on a groan as the effort of climbing each step pulled on muscles across his chest that in turn aggravated the wound.

"Why'd… they make these… so steep?" he panted as they reached the halfway mark.

"For the extra room d'Artagnan," Aramis gritted back, sweat slicking his shirt to his skin, "Foreshortening the stairs gives them space for another room."

"Dear God… the room better not… be that small," he gasped back.

"It will have a bed," Aramis managed brightly, urging d'Artagnan another step.

"Two actually," Athos said from behind them.

"See d'Artagnan? Two beds!"

D'Artagnan groaned in less than exaggerated agony, "And four musketeers."

"You're right, Porthos will have to sleep on the floor."

"As will I," Athos said.

Aramis knew he could share well enough but decided he would hold his silence for now; he could spring that idea on his friend later.

With five stairs to go Aramis began to wish the stairwell was wide enough for three because he was starting to doubt they were going to make it on his failing strength.

At least Athos was there to catch them.

Aramis breathed a silent prayer at the fact that Athos was alive at all. The image of his friend hanging on the end of a noose wasn't one he would forget with ease, though oh how he wished to.

"Almost there d'Artagnan," Athos said softly and Aramis wondered if that wasn't for his benefit as well.

The boy's head was beginning to sag, his hair hiding his eyes.

They were on the last steps when d'Artagnan's legs finally buckled.

"Athos!" Aramis tried to take the boy's weight, hissing as the move tore at his back. He stumbled to one knee, d'Artagnan making a slow collapse beside him.

Athos surged up the stairs and wrapped an arm around d'Artagnan's waist, bracing as the boy fell back against his chest. He grunted.

Aramis sat heavily, panting to catch his breath and to calm the panic of nearly letting d'Artagnan fall down a flight of stairs whilst already injured.

"Aramis?"

"A moment Athos."

"I must insist. I can't hold him like this."

"If we were in Paris, Constance would be here about now."

"Aramis."

Aramis pushed himself up and together the two of them managed to get d'Artagnan to the landing.

"Second door to the right," Athos said. Which was fortunate as the hallway was rather long.

The room did indeed have two beds, but that didn't say much for its size. A man wouldn't be able to sit on a bed without knocking his knees into its twin or conversely into a wall.

They limped d'Artagnan onto the nearest bed and Aramis staggered to his bedside and began removing the boy's coat. Athos leaned against one wall favoring his right knee. There was a knock at the door and he opened it to usher in the stable boy with their saddlebags. The boy glanced wide-eyed from the scruffy mud-coated Athos to the pale form of d'Artagnan and backed quickly out of the room.

Jacket and uniform removed, Aramis turned to d'Artagnan's shirt, trusting that Athos would retrieve his surgical kit.

A moment later water and linens arrived.

Aramis examined the wound. He leaned an ear on d'Artagnan's chest, listening for the sound of fluid in his lungs. He'd watched a soldier drown in his own blood once after being shot in the shoulder, as if the ball had skittered through his lungs somehow. But d'Artagnan's breaths were even and clear of any rattle or whistle.

He felt around the lip of the wound, getting a sense for where the ball might be found based on the tension beneath his fingers.

The wound was still bleeding, but it had slowed considerably.

Aramis reached for the tools that Athos had lowered into the boiled water. He paused with his hand hovering over the basin to watch his fingers shake. He drew a breath and clenched a fist, releasing and clenching again, looking for some measure of control in the limb. He could feel Athos's eyes on him.

"At least he's not awake for this," Aramis said, thinking that this time his ministrations might be more painful than most times. He sighed and reached into the basin.

"Then I would not delay," Athos answered. The man scrubbed a hand across his face and lowered himself to the edge of the second bed on d'Artagnan's other side. Aramis watched Athos's hands twitch as he let them fall between his knees and he sensed the man's curbed desire for physical contact.

"Hold him still. He may wake when I start," Aramis said. He positioned the tools over the wound, letting his focus narrow. Athos took the olive branch without comment, leaning over to set one hand on the boy's shoulder and another on his sternum.

Aramis drew a breath and set to work.

The bullet wasn't deep but it proved challenging enough without proper strength in his hands. He dug past and under, working to pry it up.

Athos flinched once as Aramis's grip slipped. Aramis cursed and doubled his effort, realising that the dark spots that were dancing in his vision were because he had forgotten to breathe.

The metal round lurched to the surface with a rivulet of fresh blood and Aramis put aside his tool to grasp the shot with shaking fingers. He clenched his jaw and tensed every muscle in his arm to force the shake to calm as his grip slid across the object without purchase.

Athos reached over and closed a hand around his fingers, his look stern. Aramis gasped and moved his hand away to let Athos press the bullet from the wound.

Aramis leaned back to sit on his knees, the sound of the ball clinking to the bottom of the bowl making him feel suddenly ill.

Athos pressed a square of clean linen against the sluggish bleeding, "Aramis, I can finish this. You need to lie down."

"And what of you Athos?" Aramis asked, exhaustion making his tone sharp, "I should look at your neck and your wrists. Abrasions infect just as well as open wounds. And what of your ribs? I've watched you favor them."

"My ribs are bruised, nothing more. But this time it is I who will set aside injury for the sake of a brother Aramis."

Aramis froze, realising he had stumbled across an apology of sorts.

"So then it's my turn to be angry about it?"

Athos met his gaze, "If you wish. But either way you must sleep. We can discuss it further when you wake."

Aramis nodded, his stomach protesting the action, "Alright." He pushed to his feet, the room tipping beneath him. Athos's hand on his arm grounded him and he managed to stagger around d'Artagnan's bed to the one at Athos's back. He laid himself face first across it, placing his hat on the pillow next to his head but not caring that he was fully clothed. He felt Athos shift next to him and he listened for the sound of d'Artagnan's breathing, and when he found it clear and steady he was asleep in moments.

His last thought was for Porthos – the one left fighting for all.


	14. Good Reasons

**A/N:** To every one of my readers – a massive thank you for all of your support. You guys are amazing! Two quick notes: First, I apologise for not knowing my way around mill interiors. I hope that my guestimations aren't too jarring. Second, it is my opinion that Porthos is wearing the largest amount of passive armor, as his coat is layered leather and should stop most cuts(not withstanding axe blades of course).

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"_Go Porthos." Aramis said glancing up, "I'll take care of d'Artagnan. Take the other horse and catch that bastard."_

_Porthos didn't need telling twice. He had three good reasons right in front of him to run that bastard through. Hell, he even had a few good reasons waiting in the wings. He strode across the barn and swung onto the remaining horse. He kicked it into motion and galloped after the man, visions of his fallen brothers spurring him into the night._

TMTMTM

Porthos raced the horse through the streets to the edge of town, hoping to catch sight of his quarry. The snow glowed in the starlight and Porthos's gaze narrowed on a dark figure riding towards the tree line. He kicked his horse in pursuit. The animal snorted, blowing white steam into the air, throwing up dirt and snow as its hooves thudded across the fallow fields.

The bandit leader glanced behind to see Porthos charging after him and turned back to snap his mount into a full gallop. Porthos chased the man across the field, gaining on him at each draw and proving the better horseman.

The man seemed to sense that he was losing ground and veered sharply, heading towards the distant block of the town's mill. He jerked his horse to a screaming halt as he reached it and leapt off to burst through the door. Porthos cursed, realising that the man had chosen to make his stand and now had time to reload his pistol. Porthos bent over the neck of his horse and urged it faster, determined to give the man as little time as possible to prepare.

Beyond the hulking shape of the mill, the millpond was partially frozen, dark water still rushing through the shoot and cascading over the top of the waterwheel. The rumbling squeak of wood and metal was loud in the night, louder even without clouds in the sky to cushion the sound.

Porthos kept his eye on the mill's second story windows for movement or the flash of metal that might tell him the man was going to attempt a shot on Porthos's approach. Sure enough, the shutters of a second window swung open. Then there was a flash and a crack as the man's gun discharged. Porthos ducked but it wasn't him the man was aiming for. The ball buried itself in his horse's neck and the animal reared with a panicked screech. Porthos unhooked his boots from the stirrups as the horse came down, its front legs buckling. He rolled as he was thrown from the saddle. The momentum took him the rest of the way to the mill and he came up on his feet and ducked under the eaves of the building to get out of the line of fire.

He leaned against the stacked stone of the mill's foundation to catch his breath and to load his pistol, there was no point charging in yet, the man would have the time regardless to reload, it was better to be prepared with a shot of his own.

The waterwheel groaned and creaked, water splashing across the platform that supported the leading edge of the mill. The building was a story and a half tall, built into the embankment that held the stream back to build the pressure before it slipped through the shoot and flowed over the wheel to keep it turning. Along with the door at Porthos's elbow there was a double wide door further along the side of the building that was raised up three feet to simplify the loading of wagons. Porthos knew there would be a third door on the second story at the front of the mill, which would be where the miller settled all of his business. He hoped his quarry didn't prove a coward by making use of that door.

Porthos took a breath and slipped into the darkness of the mill. The sound of the rotating axle trebled as it took up most of the floor above him. He could see the outline of stairs to his left. The space he found himself in barely a quarter the size of the mill's total footprint.

A cat darted out of the shadows at his feet and he tensed, nearly wasting his shot. His heart pounded in his ribs. He breathed out, his eyes adjusting and telling him he was the only one on this floor.

He moved to the stairs, scanning the darkness above him as he crept on light steps. He cringed as the floorboards squeaked and shifted, trusting that at least the noise of the gears would mask his approach. He knew the man would be waiting for him to appear at the top of the stairs – it was a narrow field of fire and exactly where he would've set up an ambush of his own. He slowed to blend further with the shadows, eyes still scanning and seeing nothing between the hulking shapes of equipment and storage. He vaulted over the last steps and tucked into a roll, diving for cover behind a stack of grain as a gun went off and a ball hit the wall at the top of the stairs behind him. Mortar and dust hailed across his shoulder.

The flash had come from up and to the right, the after image of it still glowing in Porthos's vision. He leaned against the coarse sacks and took aim, catching the dark movement of his target changing position across a raised platform at the far end of the mill. He saved his bullet and surged forward, not giving the man a moment to load another shot.

He slowed his charge as he reached the opposite end of the mill, squinting into the darkness trying to see the man in the shadows, but the pale starlight only illuminated the loft area above with its larger sacks of grain and the arms of a winch system.

There was a bump and a groan as something was engaged with the axle overhead. Movement from the left had Porthos spinning, gun up. A contraption in the corner had sprung to life – a ruse. Porthos cursed, turning back in time to see the man rushing him out of the shadows.

He jerked his pistol around and fired. The man's sword came down on the barrel and sent the shot into the floorboards. Porthos leapt back as the man cut in with a strike. He dropped his pistol and brought his guard up – blocking the man's quick reversal.

Gears rotated behind his head, the massive funnel shape of the grinding stones at his back.

He retaliated with a jab and circled as the man gave him space. The man backed away into darkness, taunting Porthos forward. Porthos ducked into the low section beneath the loft, feeling his nerves sing. The darkness was as thick as tar between the wood columns that were spaced evenly every four feet to brace the upper platform. His eyes slowly adjusted and he glimpsed the shape of his target ahead.

He stepped forward and there was a blinding flash as the bandit dropped a cover from a lit lantern. The flame of the candle jabbed its way through Porthos's vision and made him jerk away with a cry. The attack came out of the light, a rapier thrusting for his chest. Porthos swept his sword cross-body on instinct. Metal kissed metal as Porthos deflected most of the thrust, the point of his opponent's sword pressed to his chest and across, the triple layers of his coat absorbing the last of the blow and saving his life.

Porthos twisted away, still blind. His shoulder bumped into a pillar. Blazing white spots swam in his gaze. The man pressed his advantage, and Porthos glanced away to make use of the clear edges of his vision.

The lantern swung in the bandit's offhand, the light bobbing and shifting the shadows in a way that was sickening.

The bandit feigned to the right – Porthos drawing guard and cursing as he realised too late. He twisted around the pillar at his back, the man's swing notching into wood. Then he dodged another jab, backing up through the sacks and crates. The man gave chase. Porthos parried two blows in quick succession and came back with a lightning riposte. He wound his blade around the man's block and managed to spin the sword from the man's grip.

The man's face contorted and he surprised Porthos by launching himself forward. He swept Porthos's sword aside with the lantern and looped it around to break it against the side of Porthos's head. The glass cover shattered and Porthos staggered back, fetching up against a broad spinning gear that was feeding power to whatever was slamming away in the corner. The bandit cast the lantern aside and grabbed Porthos's wrist, slamming it repeatedly into the gear until his hand went numb and the sword slipped from his grip.

Porthos struggled to gather his scattered senses, the shadows still swimming around him. The man jerked Porthos up by the front of his coat and forced him backwards across the gear, a hand around his throat.

Porthos choked, the sharpened iron teeth of a vertical gear devouring its partner barely a hand span away. Porthos threw a fist into the man's face twice to break his hold and rolled away just before the teeth of the engaged wheel came down on his head.

The man staggered.

Porthos spotted his sword and dove for it.

Suddenly the glow of the candle flared bright as the small flame lit the flour dust across the floor. It burst into life as it spread, sparking at crushed kernels of grain. Instantly the flames were licking up the wooden columns and into the floorboards of the loft above.

The bandit leader had doubled back and regained his own sword and they faced each other through the fire.

Porthos dipped into a thrust. The bandit parried and returned with a strike. They traded cuts and parries, the flames surging up around them. Smoke filled the space. Porthos tried to ignore the itch in his throat, sweat sliding across his skin. The bandit's gaze was feral, the orange light flickering across his eyes like a manifestation of his rage.

The observation caught Porthos by surprise as he recognised the echo of it. A support beam collapsed between them and Porthos realised that they were fighting to the death in a building that was quickly burning to the ground around them and that they were both content to do so for the sake of their anger alone.

The revelation slapped him cold.

Justice dealt or not, Athos would curse him from the grave if he died for this.

Porthos turned and ducked towards the door, shielding his mouth and nose with his sleeve, smoke-filled tears blurred his vision as he blundered through the burning building.

He burst out into fresh air and stumbled away from the mill. He turned back and watched the flames reach into the night through growing holes in the roof. The groan and creak of the waterwheel had turned into the roar of heat and flames.

Then a heartbeat later, the bandit staggered through the doorway, his shoulders smoking in the chill air. The man stumbled forward and stopped as he spotted Porthos ahead. Behind the man the fire raged, wood groaning and spitting now, the orange light casting the world away into darkness and dividing their conflict into a place of its own making.

The man straightened. His sword came up in an elegant guard, demonstrating a clear highborn upbringing. His actions were deliberate as his steps traced through the melting snow and closed the gap between them. "Well musketeer," he said, "Let's finish this you and I."

Porthos cautioned himself to patience, realising he was at a disadvantage now that they were in the open.

The man took the first strike. Porthos parried and attacked, the man catching his blade with his own and the pair of them breaking away again. They circled each other.

Behind them, the mill groaned as the roof settled against the blaze that was consuming it.

Porthos attacked, aiming a stab at the man's hip, the man stepped aside, guard up to defend a change of direction, not presenting any opening. Porthos stepped back, goading the man to follow with an attack of his own. The man swept in, Porthos caught the blade along his own. He grabbed the man's wrist with his free hand, looking to trap his sword arm, stepping in to slam his elbow high to strike the man's cheek. The man was faster than Porthos expected. The bandit ducked forward turning chest to chest and reaching with his off hand to catch the hilt as he let it go. He spun, drawing the blade across Porthos's side. Porthos tossed the man away with a hiss, a hand going to his side to feel that his coat had once again proven his salvation.

He growled and charged – _damn caution to all the winds_.

The man parried his strikes until the force of each rattled his arm. His eyes grew wide then and Prothos slammed his forehead across the man's brow. The man stumbled back, blood flowing down his face. Porthos lunged with a roar. As the man fought to bring up his guard, Porthos beat the weapon from his hand.

In one savage thrust, Porthos ran the man through.

The bandit leader grunted, Porthos grabbed him by the shoulder to keep him upright and then wrenched the blade.

Blood burst from the man's mouth and Prothos yanked his sword out, letting the man fall to his knees.

"That was for Athos," Porthos growled, "And this, this is for what you did to my horse." Porthos rammed his sword through the man's throat. The man's gaze turned towards the darkness and lodged there.

Porthos jerked his sword free and the body collapsed sideways to the snow covered ground. The roaring of the flames rose to a crescendo and the roof finally gave way in a shower of sparks that danced upwards to replace the stars. Far across the field, there were shouts as villagers with torches advanced towards the burning mill.

Porthos cleaned his sword on the bandit's clothing and returned it to its sheath. He began patting the man down, flipped his shirt open to find a velvet pouch hanging on a string around the man's neck. He tore the pouch free and shook the contents into the palm of one hand. A ring fell loose and Porthos turned it over to make sure it was Montmorency's signet. Sure enough, the recesses of the Duc's crest flickered back at him in the light of the flames. He slid it back into the velvet bag and stashed it in his belt pouch.

The last thing he did was free the green-jeweled ring from the man's right hand.

It was unlikely this man had been working alone, not with as many men as he'd managed to field, and yet they hadn't even discovered his identity. Porthos was sure the jewelled ring was the key. He tipped it towards the mill and watched fire flicker across a pattern stamped into the filigree around the stone. A family crest perhaps. Surely, Athos would recognize it. Porthos suddenly felt his throat close on ashes.

He coughed and drew a ragged breath, anything to clear the dry burning. Tears pooled in his eyes and he brushed them away with the back of one hand. He pushed to his feet and started back to the inn, clinging to the trust that Aramis could save them all.


	15. And Four Musketeers

**A/N:** I won't have time to edit over the next few days so unfortunately that means the last two chapters must wait. Don't worry, I promise there's more friendship goodness to come.

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TMTMTM

Sleep for Aramis was heavy and hard and waking up was like rising through a fog as thick as cotton. When he finally had his eyes open and the room focused around him he realised he couldn't have been sleeping for more than an hour or two because Athos was still sitting on his bed and d'Artagnan had hardly moved in his.

Without lifting his head, Aramis scanned their youngest musketeer, seeing a fresh wrap around the wound and the covers pulled up to the center of his chest. Athos must have finished the stitches and cleaned and stored everything away. And now the man in question was leaning his head in one hand, his frame limp as if already intending to fall asleep as he was seated.

Aramis examined his friend fully for the first time since they had left the barn. The abrasions on his wrists showed beneath his cuffs, the skin darkly bruised and rubbed red but not broken or torn. He looked haggard and exhausted; his face pale and pinched, lines of worry and pain standing at the corners of his eyes and working their way to being full residents. The difference in their ages wasn't that great and Aramis found the evidence of his friend's mortality uncomfortable. And yet to die of old age in their profession couldn't be considered anything other than good fortune.

An image of Athos hanging by his neck flashed to his mind and Aramis couldn't hold back a shudder.

Athos lifted his head from his hand and glanced at Aramis. He squinted and Aramis realised the man was so exhausted he was struggling to form thought.

Aramis pushed off his chest. He tossed his hat on the floor to clear the pillow and then he grabbed Athos by the shoulders to guide the man onto the bed beside him. Athos flailed, a protest rising on his throat. When his head hit the pillow, the tension began to melt. Aramis divested the man of his boots, then gingerly bent to remove his own.

"What…" Athos cleared his throat, "are you doing?"

Aramis pulled up the blankets, sliding his feet under and scooting over to claim a slice of the bed for his own use.

"You stay on your side and I'll stay on mine." Aramis yawned, "Didn't think it was that hard."

He laid himself down on his side next to Athos, his back twinging for not being flat and his elbows hanging off the side of the bed as he folded his arms across his chest. It didn't matter, he was back asleep in moments.

TMTMTM

The next time Aramis woke, the room was dark with only starlight spilling through the single window to light the sleeping forms of his brothers. The candle had settled itself to smoke. There was the sound of snoring and Aramis nearly jerked upright as he realised that could only mean one thing; Porthos was back.

He winced as he pushed himself upright, feeling the stitches as individual lines of bee stings, the flesh around the wound feeling distinctly bruised and tender. He longed for the feeling of cold air across his back to numb the pain, but with four musketeers in the small room, the space had warmed considerably.

Aramis shifted carefully on the bed so as not to disturb Athos beside him who was lying limp across his back, his skin glowing in the pale light. The older man didn't stir and Aramis was glad of that.

Gingerly he crept around the room to the far wall where the snores seemed to originate. D'Artagnan was still soundly asleep in the bed, the straw filled mattress just wide enough that neither shoulder touched its borders. Aramis was surprised Porthos hadn't had the sense to share with the boy. Instead, Porthos had cramped himself upright between the wall and d'Artagnan's bed; his head leaned sideways across the boy's pillow. At least he'd had the sense to share that it seemed.

Aramis crouched in front of his dearest friend, scanning for hurts and injuries. He could see, even in the low light, the score marks across his coat were a blade had come too close; one strike across the center of his chest and another deeper scar through the leather at his side, which continued onwards to wrap around his lower back. If those wounds had been real, it would have been a long night indeed.

As it was, his friend wasn't completely unscathed. Aramis was tempted to reach out and touch the small cuts that dotted the side of Porthos's face as if the man had fallen face-first onto glass. They didn't seem to bother his stalwart friend but Aramis was itching to clean them at the very least.

He glanced around to see if Athos had perhaps left some spirits around after cleaning d'Artagnan's wound, but there were no discarded bottles to see in the small space. He checked the saddlebags and found a small amount of liquid left in the vial in his surgical kit. He doused a square of linen with it and returned to Porthos.

The man continued his snoring and Aramis debated the wisdom of applying the spirits while he slept and then decided that he still wanted to live, at least until they returned to Paris, and startling his friend from sleep by applying pain would likely not be the way to ensure that.

Aramis reached out and tapped Porthos on the leg. Porthos came awake with a start, hands reaching for his belt and the knife that usually resided there. Fingers grasped at air and Aramis realised he'd failed to retrieve his friend's dagger from the barn. He hoped it would be there to find in the morning.

"'Mis?" Porthos said, his voice groggy and his eyes blinking.

"Eventful evening? I do hope you succeeded in running that bastard through. I'd say Athos would be disappointed to hear otherwise." Aramis was sure Porthos had noted right away that Athos was still amongst the living, if only just sleeping like the dead for the moment, but he figured to play it safe and reiterate that fact.

"Yeah, bastard tried to burn the mill down 'round our ears."

"That explains the soot," Aramis said rubbing his fingers together where they had come away greasy from Porthos's clothing, "So eventful indeed," he said softly, wondering at the reality that he might have lost all three of his friends this night.

"Got Montmorency's signet back too," Porthos said with a tired nod.

Aramis handed the man the cloth, "And what else did you do? Get your head tied into a bag of cats?" He gestured to the cuts on Porthos's face and the man dabbed at them with the cloth.

"The lantern, the one that lit the mill on fire," he said.

"You bashed your head into it?"

"No he bashed my head into it."

"Oh, that's better I guess."

"It didn't light my hair on fire." The grin was fleeting.

Aramis leaned back and examined his friend, "You know, I couldn't tell."

Porthos glared. It was Aramis's turn to smile and the expression felt good. They were all alive, they were safe.

"How're the others?" Porthos asked softly, his mind tracking along with Aramis's without thought or awareness.

Aramis lowered himself to the floor to lean a shoulder against the wall beside his friend. "Athos is exhausted but should be fine by the morning. He assures me his ribs are only bruised, I'm inclined to believe him or he would not have managed to catch d'Artagnan on the stairs."

Porthos raised an eyebrow in question over that comment.

"Getting d'Artagnan here proved a challenge of sorts. I may have failed to catch the boy when he finally collapsed at the top of the steps. We're all lucky Athos was right behind us."

Porthos grunted, "While I was off fightin' the real enemy you three were fightin' a flight of stairs?"

"We were lucky it was only stairs my friend," Aramis said with a quiet chuckle, "They were challenge enough."

"How is he?" Porthos asked, his gaze turning to the slow rise and fall of d'Artagnan's bandaged chest.

"Tended and sleeping. It's too soon to say if the wound will remain clear, you know the risk of deep wounds as well as I. He will sleep for as long as his body needs and maybe tomorrow we will know more." Aramis wasn't going to mention the triage and the endless shake of his hands or the fact that he had had to abandon the task to a wounded comrade, it was a thorn in his pride without adding Porthos's worry over it. He hoped Athos would keep the specifics to himself.

He glanced back to find Porthos staring at him.

"So waitin's all that's left then. I'm sure you did your best, 'Mis."

It seemed Porthos was determined to be a bloodhound to Aramis's thoughts tonight. Aramis felt his lips quirk, "Maybe, though one can always be left wondering if more might have been done."

"Not tonight Aramis." Porthos lifted the cloth from his cheek to see the small spots of blood that told Aramis the alcohol had done its work to clean the wounds. "You're about to fall asleep on the floor as you are."

Aramis fought back a yawn, the energy that had flooded his veins at the realisation that Porthos had returned was fading fast and he conceded Porthos's point with a tired nod. The day had been so long somehow, as if the emotions from finding Athos as they had were such that they could have filled a month at least, and likely should have, instead of being compressed into the terrifying five minutes they had been. Aramis frowned, not even sure if that last thought had made sense.

Porthos gripped Aramis's shoulder, "Go back to bed. I ain't no doctor but I'd say you need sleep more than anything right now." The concern was thick in his friend's gaze and Aramis nodded. He pushed to his feet, relying on the wall at his shoulder. He wished to suggest that Porthos share d'Artagnan's bed, but he had a suspicion Porthos would refuse, too worried about bumping the boy in the night. Aramis stopped at the saddlebags briefly and returned to Porthos to drape one of their cloaks across him. "Might get cold later," he mumbled and he shuffled his way back to Athos's side.

"Thanks," Porthos said gruffly.

Aramis waved the sentiment away, he would have done better if he wasn't about to fall over. He gingerly shifted onto his share of mattress and barely felt the burning ache of his back as he closed his eyes and surrendered to the call of sleep.


	16. Another Drink

**A/N:** Wow sorry for the unexpected hiatus! I'm back! A couple of tradeshows and I was like half the musketeers in this chapter and subsequently in no position to edit. But there's some good news – I've expanded the ending and am therefore breaking the final chapter into three which means there should be two more after this one. I hope you enjoy.

* * *

TMTMTM

The next morning Porthos woke to Athos changing d'Artagnan's dressings. The boy was still out cold and Porthos could see that he hadn't once shifted in the night. Porthos rubbed the kink out of his neck and shifted his legs out of the sleep they had been coaxed into by the hard floorboards. Athos glanced across at him, realising he was awake.

"So you made it back last night," Athos said, his voice low so as not to wake their fourth, who was flopped gracelessly across the edge of the bed and still asleep. "Dare I ask how things went?" Athos poked at the edges of the hole in d'Artagnan's shoulder, testing the skin for heat.

The heavy lines around the older man's eyes tightened and Porthos resisted the urge to reach over and feel the wound for himself. Instead, Porthos reached into his belt pouch and returned with the signet ring.

Some of the tension eased from Athos's frame.

"And, it was a bit of a trick, but the bastard's dead," Porthos said.

"Good." Athos answered with a nod. Then he grimaced, "Though I won't lie, I had hoped to do it myself." He doused a square of linen with the last of a bottle of brandy and applied the dressing.

D'Artagnan didn't stir.

Porthos swallowed, the non-response from the kid was troubling, Porthos knew how much brandy poured into an open wound could hurt.

Athos eyed the empty bottle with disgust, "This cost as much as the room and I didn't get a drop. I'm eager to be back in Paris if only for the cheap wine."

Porthos was sure they would need another bottle of that brandy for Aramis but he wasn't going to broach the topic. He didn't think Athos knew about the probability of torn stitches across their friend's back – he'd been unconscious for the fight and Porthos doubted Aramis stopped to mention it.

Porthos hadn't been sure what manner of first aid had occurred between them in his absence, but if Aramis's wound had been tended, then he likely would have been awake with Athos to check on d'Artagnan. The fact that he still slept added weight to Porthos's suspicion that once again the needs of others had outweighed the self-regard of one very stubborn musketeer.

Athos wrapped the bullet wound and Porthos helped to lift d'Artagnan's limp torso up to reach around with the strip of cloth. The boy's head flopped at the end of his neck and even the uncomfortable angle didn't enlisted a stir.

Porthos could feel Athos's sudden need to be elsewhere and Porthos realised letting the man have his head would give him the space he needed to see to Aramis without further invoking their leader's wrath.

But first, brandy.

Porthos straightened as Athos finished settling d'Artagnan beneath the blankets.

"You know," Porthos said, brushing his hands across his trousers, "I wouldn't mind a taste of that brandy myself. D'you think they have any left downstairs?"

"Wouldn't be much of a tavern if they didn't."

"You alrigh' if I take next watch?"

Athos arched an eyebrow, "What happened to your taste for brandy?"

"Well, somethin's gotta keep me company."

Athos snorted, "You're right, it will likely be midday before Aramis graces us with his good looks." He glanced across the room to the man in question, the tension in his shoulders winding up again.

Porthos watched the moment the pressure of Athos's concern tipped and threatened to overflow.

Athos stood, his hands shaking as he reached for his hat and coat. He glanced back at Porthos, "If you're not in a hurry for breakfast, I will enquire about the brandy and have someone send it up to the room."

Porthos nodded, "Good plan. Couldn't've come up with a better one myself."

Athos leveled him with a glare and Porthos grinned.

"And 'ey," Porthos stopped him as he reached for the door, "Just so's we're clear… I'm glad you're not dead."

Athos rolled his eyes, "You only say that because no one else has the money to buy you brandy."

Porthos snorted and then laughed, shaking his head at his friend as the man moved to leave. He caught a glimpse of Athos's smile; it was small but it was there, flickering at the corner of his mouth as he closed the door behind him.

With Athos gone, Porthos observed the room in silence for a moment, the only sound was the steady rise and fall of sleeping breaths, reassuring and disconcerting in equal measure. He finally had the space to air his own concerns but he discovered, by the thud of his heart in his throat as he remembered the events of yesterday, that perhaps that extra space made his worry echo and seem louder than it need be.

Porthos moved to Aramis's bedside. Without anyone in the room to bear witness he decided he could call his urgency whatever he wanted – though he made an effort to retrieve the marksman's surgical kit first.

Porthos sat next to his friend, trying to assess his friend's condition without touching him.

Aramis was sleeping as if he were still sharing the bed, though he had rolled fully onto his chest so that his left arm draped over the side and brushed the floor. His skin was sallow in the morning light, and there were darker circles beneath his eyes – as if it were sleep itself that was sapping his strength. The man had fallen asleep fully clothed, seeming to have only cared for his boots and his hat, which were cast across the floor. With the coat, shirt, and dressing beneath, there was very little of the wound to see. Porthos would need to rouse him to get any further with his assessment.

"Aramis."

Porthos set a hand on Aramis's shoulder, knowing he would need to give it a shake but not wanting to cause his friend pain. He caught that thought as it passed and he growled; if the intention was to re-stitch a torn wound, then causing pain would be his main action for the day.

"Wake up 'Mis." He gave Aramis a shake. "I'd let you sleep, but I think now might be the best time to deal with those injuries of yours. I let Athos find his way to the tavern. He's not here to notice and he doesn't have to know anything. But you must wake."

Aramis groaned and flopped his trailing hand as if to shoo him away.

There was a knock on the door and Porthos went to open it to receive the bottle of brandy from the stable boy who had been sent on the errand. He tossed the boy a coin and sent his curious gaze away with him down the hall.

"P'thos… you can eat breakfast without me… don't mind… rather sleep," Aramis mumbled, his face pressing into the pillow.

"'Cept it's not breakfast I'm after. I think it's about time we tended those stitches on your back."

Aramis groaned again, coherent this time.

"Tell you what. If they aren't torn then I'll let you go back to sleep. How's that?"

Aramis sighed, blinking one eye open than the other, "There'll be no sleep to be had after your ham-fisted poking either way." Aramis hissed as he pushed himself upright.

"Have some of this," Porthos unstopped the bottle and held it out to his friend.

Aramis took a swallow before handing the bottle back and gingerly shifting out of his coat and pulling his shirt over his head.

With Aramis's shirt off, Porthos could see that the wound had bled into the dressing on the left side where the bandit's rifle would have struck with the most weight. The blood had dried at least, which would mean the bleeding had stopped. Porthos began unwinding the dressing, tugging the layers apart one by one where the blood glued them in place. Aramis's skin was warm beneath his hands but not unusually so. Aramis hissed as the last layer pulled on the wound itself.

With the cut finally open to the air, Porthos leaned back to survey the damage. It was both better and worse than he'd expected. Surprisingly the stitches had held. Porthos wasn't going to question that minor miracle, this was Aramis after all; the man's luck had always been devilish by nature. But while the stitches had remained in place, the flesh around the stitches on the left side had swollen and bruised in a way that made Porthos glad he hadn't eaten breakfast that morning.

Porthos cleared his throat.

"Well?" Aramis asked.

"How were you even wearing clothing?"

"You may be terrible at stitches Porthos but I'll never complain about your dressings. I think the pressure helped somewhat. Now though…" Aramis gritted his teeth. "Well let's just get on with this shall we?"

"Yeah, this is gonna hurt a little. The stitches held but it still needs a cleaning."

"So get on with it."

"'Mis, this is really gonna hurt."

"Porthos I know."

"Do you want to lie down?"

"Not really."

"I'm thinking you should."

"For the love of God Porthos, the anticipation is _not_ making this easier."

"I really think you should lie down."

"Fine." Aramis leaned around to lower himself back to his chest, "Just don't––Aaarggh!" Aramis stiffened as the brandy flowed across the wound, sweat broke across his brow and he gasped at the air, hands fisted in the bedding.

"Sorry," Porthos winced.

Aramis swore, panted a few breaths, and then swore again.

"Yeah, sorry," Porthos said again.

"There any of that left?" Aramis rasped.

"You mean the brandy?"

"Should'a had more to start with," he croaked as Porthos handed him the bottle. He took another long swallow.

"I'll remind you next time. Now let's look at the cut on your arm."

Aramis glared at him with red-rimmed eyes, "What happened to letting me sleep."

"Have another drink."

The wound on Aramis arm was better than the cut on his back. The stitches were grim, lopsided things that dove high into healthy flesh, but they had served to hold the edges together and the wound was cool to the touch. It was well on its way to healing.

"Looks like these will come out in a few days."

"Maybe more," Aramis said tiredly, "it was deep."

Porthos paused in his changing of the dressing to stare at his friend, "You should have woken me."

"It was bound to scar anyways."

"I'm not talking about the stitches," Porthos growled, "Though I'm angry about those too. You should'a woken me if the wound was that deep. What if you'd needed a _pair_ of hands instead of one?" He finished wrapping the bandage, "Maybe Athos had a point."

Aramis rolled his eyes, "Could everyone stop saying that?"

"D'Artagnan gave you that too did'e?"

"Just before we found Athos in the barn. But if the intent was to leave me behind than you should have done that at the roadside, you might have reached Athos sooner."

"No one's leaving you anywhere."

Aramis rounded on him, "Then forgive me for being there to save d'Artagnan while you were off securing the mission."

Porthos dropped his hands, "Aramis, I'm sorry."

"No you know what? Maybe Athos _is_ right. Maybe I need to stop caring. Then we can all be more like Athos."

"Come on Aramis, he cares a lot more than that. He just pushes it away because he can't bear losing it is all."

"Exactly Porthos." Aramis held up the bottle of brandy, "Is this way really any better?" He took another drink and handed it to Porthos, not meeting his eyes. "It's not my way, regardless."

Porthos took a drink in turn, thinking about his friend's words and letting the silence build between them; it was a tired silence but there was no anger in it.

Aramis pushed a hand through his hair, "Whatever the case, by the grace of God we all still live." He turned to Porthos, dark eyes earnest and open, "That might not be good enough for Athos but it's good enough for me."


	17. Brothers

**A/N:** And so we come to the end. There is one final chapter, but it is short and more of an epilogue.

I would like to dedicate this chapter to Linguam, LadyCavil, Iluviayui, Deana, Issai, celticgal1041, Sue Pokorny, Sarah, circleofstars, ncis-lady, Snow-Glory, 1monster2, Cognizance, parisindy, Sweet Lu, ZoeBreaky, Buckeye01, Middle earth musketeers, Violet Eternity, Boooyakasha, and to everyone else who stuck with me 'til the end and cheered this story forwards! This wouldn't be what it was if it weren't for all of you!

* * *

TMTMTM

Porthos joined Athos at the corner table in the tavern sensing a strange attention in the room which he attributed to the fact that Athos was already well into his drink and it wasn't even midday.

Athos leaned back to eye Porthos as he waved the serving girl over.

"Breakfast," Porthos grunted. At Athos's questioning look, he added, "Aramis decided to watch d'Artagnan for a stretch. He seemed to think the rumbling of my stomach was liable to disturb the boy's sleep if I didn't eat something."

Athos snorted at that. His eyelids fluttered and he glanced away to take a sip of his wine. Porthos could easily read his relief to hear that their marksman was awake and mobile.

"How are his injuries?" Athos asked as if he'd already known Porthos had intended to inspect them.

Porthos wasn't sure how he wanted to answer that and finally settled for, "Better than I expected after yesterday."

"Was that only yesterday?" Athos dangled his cup from his fingers and stared at it in disgust.

The serving girl arrived at the table, her attention on Porthos but her eyes glancing at Athos. "Can I get you something?" she said, directing the question back to Porthos.

"Breakfast," Porthos said.

She nodded and left them alone, her gazing scanning the other patrons almost nervously. Porthos frowned after her, wondering what he was missing.

Across the table Athos cleared his throat, his own eyes lost in his cup, "Valençay mentioned an ambush. He seemed to think he'd dealt with his musketeer problem. He was convinced of it actually." The way he said that was weighted as if, for a moment, Athos had believed him.

"Convinced eh?" Porthos chuckled, "One should never underestimate Aramis's skill at spotting things. There was an ambush sure but I ain't sure it counts if they didn't surprise their prey."

Athos dipped his head. "I should have been there," he mumbled.

The voicing of that sentiment was very un-Athos and Porthos wasn't sure if that was the wine talking or the results of the past day. Either way he would address it as it deserved. He shrugged, "We did alrigh'. Might've helped keep you safer is all. But then, at that rate we may as well get Aramis to sew us together at the hip."

Athos stared at him, "That's hardly practical."

"My point exactly."

Athos sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face, "Why it lingers I cannot say."

"That bastard was well on his way to hanging you. Why shouldn't it linger?"

Athos slammed his cup on the table. "Because that attributes power to Valençay 's words," he hissed, "And that bastard deserves no such hold over any of us."

Porthos held up his hands, "Peace Athos. Hold up… you said Valençay ? That the bandit leader's name? So he introduced himself did he?" Porthos leaned to fish into his pouch. He pulled out the bandit's ring and handed it across the table, "I took this to see if we could put a name to him. Seems I didn't need to."

Athos blinked and took the ring, turning it over between his fingers. He straightened, "There's a family crest on this."

"Thought so," Porthos nodded.

"So he was noble then." Athos frowned, "I know this crest. D'Étampe de Valençay . They have an estate south of Bourges. I've met one of the sons… He was a distinguished officer in the army under––

––Montmorency," Porthos finished, putting the pieces together.

Athos leaned back and tossed the ring on the table, "That explains the man's feverish loyalty to dead ideals. His brother was one of the Duc's own."

"Which means he probably wasn't working alone."

"No. It seems not."

Porthos growled, "Perhaps we need to make a visit to the family estates."

Athos leveled him with a firm stare, "First things first, we make it back to Paris. Preferably in fewer pieces than we're in. We hand the Duc's signet over to the King. And then we worry about what this all means."

Porthos sighed, "Right."

The serving girl returned with a bowl of steaming porridge and Athos turned his attention back to his wine. Porthos eyed the porridge with a flicker of disappointment. He'd been hoping for eggs and maybe bacon. Well at least it was hot. He dove into the food without another thought and they ate and drank in silence for a time.

"You should go up and talk to him," Porthos said. He didn't meet Athos's gaze.

"You think that would make a difference?" Athos scoffed.

"To his foolishness? No. But it might for your sake."

Athos arched an eyebrow, "I'm fine Porthos."

"Nah, now see, that's where you're wrong," he gestured with his spoon, "you're still holding it in." He grunted at Athos's look. "I mean worse than normal… Aramis will let it pass, but you won't. Go. Get it off your chest. And if you won't do it for your own sake, do it for d'Artagnan. You know how stressed he gets when things aren't sitting right between us. Don't agonise him over it. Not when he's laid low as he is."

Athos stared at him, "I think I prefer when your ruthlessness is pointed at our enemies."

Porthos grinned, "You're welcome."

TMTMTM

It had taken d'Artagnan many months to figure out what made his three comrades the Inseparables and even still he was struggling to define it in all its many facets, but by now he'd decided on a few things to explain his friends for himself. They were inseparable not only because their friendship was closer to brotherhood, but because they each had strengths and weaknesses that they fulfilled in one another. Athos was brooding and serious, Aramis was good-humoured and optimistic, and Porthos was hot tempered and consistent. But it was more than that, Athos led with his thoughts, always thinking first, Aramis chose with his heart, always feeling first, and Porthos took action, always acting on the thoughts and feelings of the others even when they would not act for themselves. And so, head, heart, hand, the three of them were one – one unit, one body.

D'Artagnan knew he didn't entirely fit into the whole. He was orbital, external and one unto himself though he longed to be part. What more was there to governing one's existence than head, heart, and hand?

And yet the three of them hadn't jerked a knee to include him in their own understanding of brotherhood, as if they themselves couldn't see how complete they were on their own. Though perhaps they considered him a younger brother in a truer sense.

However it worked, d'Artagnan had learned that living with the three proved the most challenging when the separate parts of itself disagreed. No time was that schism more challenging then when it ran between head and heart, for those two could disagree often and d'Artagnan would always find merit to each side of the argument.

And so it was that d'Artagnan surfaced from darkness and straight into the chasm that had opened between Athos and Aramis over the previous days.

"Morning," Aramis said, running his rag along the barrel of his pistol where he sat on the edge of the neighboring bed with one foot propped on d'Artagnan's.

D'Artagnan struggled to grasp full awareness, wanting to answer.

"Porthos seems to think we have something to discuss." That was Athos, his voice coming from somewhere at the foot of d'Artagnan's bed. D'Artagnan stilled as he realised Aramis didn't yet know that he was awake and that his greeting had been directed at the other man.

"Oh? Is that so? Hmmm," Aramis tilted his head and pursed his lips, "I can't think of anything."

"Good." D'Artagnan heard Athos shift against the doorframe and turn to leave. There was a pause as he seemed to stop just outside of the room. D'Artagnan could imagine him tipping his head towards the ceiling. There was a heavy sigh and Athos seemed to change his mind, "How are you feeling?" he asked Aramis.

"Fine." There was a pause and then Aramis sighed and tossed the cleaning rag aside. "Tired. Just as you are I suspect." He carefully reached behind him to hook the pistol to his belt.

"And your injuries?"

"Healing, Athos. What do you want?" Aramis stared up at their leader, his tone worn but no less challenging.

Athos huffed, "I wish you would be less foolish Aramis."

"Define foolish because I thought I was just doing what was right."

"Well to start with you can stop stepping in front of loaded muskets."

Aramis frowned, and d'Artagnan could see him casting his mind back to whatever Athos was referencing, "From that distance nobody could make that shot."

"And yet, as I recall, you did just that."

"I guess that means I'm exceptionally good at what I do," Aramis grinned.

"Or just lucky."

"Either way it worked. I wasn't about to let them wait us out. As it was, we barely got you out of that swamp in time."

"And there's another thing. You sent d'Artagnan alone into the bandit camp to fight who knows how many men _and_ you left yourself completely undefended in the process."

D'Artagnan struggled not to frown.

"I had you and Porthos to guard my back," Aramis said, glossing over the reality that Athos was blaming him for something that hadn't even been his call.

"We were stuck in a swamp!" Athos snapped.

"You did well enough."

"You were injured." It was a hiss this time.

"Fighting three men who proved more skilled than I'd first thought, yes," Aramis admitted.

"Athos..." d'Artagnan croaked and cleared his throat, opening his eyes to squint at his mentor, "I do believe it was I who suggested the plan."

"D'Artagnan…?" Aramis leaned over him, his expression dancing from relief to concern and back again.

"'m here," he said, his throat still dry and scratchy.

"How do you feel? Can you move your arm?"

"Yeah… think so. Still hurts…"

"Good."

D'Artagnan frowned; clearly Aramis had meant about the mobility… he couldn't have meant the pain, which was driving through his shoulder like a blazing fire prong. Unless _not_ feeling it was a symptom of something worse?… D'Artagnan swallowed and decided he didn't really have any desire to know the medic's craft.

"Here, drink this," Athos was on his other side and helping to bring a cup to his lips.

Cool water slid down his throat in blessed relief. He leaned back and closed his eyes a moment, enjoying the sensation as it distracted him from his shoulder.

"If sleep tugs at you, you should rest," Aramis said softly.

Sleep was indeed tugging but d'Artagnan had been waiting for Aramis and Athos to have this conversation for days and he wasn't going to miss it for sleep. "No no, it's fine. Continue."

"Continue." Athos echoed, "Continue what exactly?"

"Your topic of discussion. God knows we've all been waiting. Don't mind me."

Athos stared at him. Aramis hmphed.

"Well, on with it then," d'Artagnan glanced from one to the other where they were glaring down on him from either side of the bed.

When nobody moved to continue, he prompted them by turning to Aramis and saying, "I believe we were at the part where Athos gets mad at you for ignoring your injuries. He thinks you should have enlisted our help – rightly so I will add."

Athos grunted, "d'Artagnan is right, you had no cause to endanger yourself like that."

Aramis straightened, "Really? Now it's the two of you? Athos, you were dying of exposure! You may not remember but it was cause enough, I assure you. And besides that," Aramis glared down at d'Artagnan, "I fell asleep before I could wake you. I believe I even apologised earlier. I had every intention of dealing with my injuries, in fact I did so to the best of my ability in that moment. Had there been time in the morning I would have dealt with the remainder then."

"Instead you rode off without telling any of us that riding the horse was liable to kill you!" Athos growled.

Aramis threw up his hands, "Because I thought I would find Porthos shot and lying drenched in his own blood!"

Athos ran a hand down his face and lowered his voice, "You always push yourself too far, Aramis. You can't keep assuming there will be someone there to catch you." He met the marksman's gaze, "You can't keep assuming _I'm_ going to be there. One day I may not be. And what then Aramis? What then?"

At the shift in tone, d'Artagnan felt his throat constrict. He hadn't been prepared for those words and they provoked a possibility that he suddenly experienced as raw as when he'd truly believed Athos had been dead.

Aramis's expression softened, the tension easing out of his shoulders, "Athos you aren't going anywhere. Granted, it was close this time, but that's no cause to change how we trust. We're soldiers. We have to assume the man at our back is doing all he can if the goal is to fight as one." He glanced away, "I trust you Athos, do not blame me for that trust. You are my brother in this, but if the aim is not to fight together, then you must tell me."

Athos deflated and he let himself fall back against the wall. Suddenly he looked more tired than d'Artagnan had ever seen him. "Aramis… that wasn't my intent."

"I'm glad to hear it. Because none of us are prepared to let you go." They glared at each other until something passed between them and it was as if the waters calmed.

D'Artagnan pushed himself carefully upright. "He's right Athos," he offered.

"I'm slowly coming to that conclusion," his smile was quiet, and rueful, "whether I like it or not."

"So it's settled then? I've defended myself well enough?"

Athos and d'Artagnan shared a glance.

"There's just one more thing," d'Artagnan said, cradling his arm to ease the pain in his shoulder, "Try to remember you can't help any of us if you're dead."

"It wouldn't be my first choice of outcomes, true." Aramis chuckled. "So we're good."

"As good as ever I suppose," Athos answered.

D'Artagnan managed to his feet and dragged Athos into a hug, "Good," he said, and then softly, "you had me worried for a time."

Athos cleared his throat and d'Artagnan let him go. He turned to glare at Aramis who was doing nothing to hide the twinkle in his eye.

"What?" Aramis protested, hands raised, and then he was laughing as he caught sight of Athos's expression over d'Artagnan's shoulder.

Athos rolled his eyes and turned towards the door, "Well, if you two gentlemen are convinced you're capable of looking after yourselves then I'll be downstairs." Just as he was reaching for the door there was a loud crash from somewhere beneath them.

They shared a glance. The next roar was distinctly Porthos, and all three of them lurched into action.

TMTMTM

Porthos didn't remember at what point through his porridge the attention in the room shifted and began to make his skin itch, but by the time the door to the inn opened and three men walked in with heavy winter cloaks, he knew he had a fight on his hands.

A few of the tavern's patrons took to their feet, their faces angry, and the serving girl stepped back to put the bar counter between them.

Porthos eyed the men as they advanced towards him, seeing sickles and stunted pitchforks and various other tools hidden beneath their garb.

Realising their ruse was spoiled, they cleared their weapons and attacked.

Porthos upturned the table as he stood, porridge and chairs crashing across the floor. He threw his spoon at the nearest man and drew his sword. The men coming up behind him, staggered back. Not brave enough to face raw steel. Porthos tossed his chair at the first to step forward and then roared as he cut down a pitchfork. He spun, twisting his sword in a feint to win him some space. He didn't much wish to hurt anyone but he wouldn't hesitate if they gave him no choice.

"BY ORDER OF THE KING! Cease this at once!" Athos roared. He shoved through the press to stand at Porthos's shoulder, sword in hand.

"Or you will answer to all of us," Aramis said, guarding Porthos's back, both pistols drawn and raised.

"And you will die for it!" D'Artagnan said, taking Porthos's other shoulder, one arm tight to his chest and the other holding his sword on guard.

Porthos grinned, the flood of relief making his chest swell. He swept the room with a dark chuckle and the villagers wavered. "What they said…"

And all four musketeers stood together as one.

...


	18. Epilogue

**A/N:** First off, one final thank you to all of my readers! All of you are fantastic and inspiring. And here we are, a tiny bit of fluff to finish it all. I toyed with expanding it/deepening the subject and then realised that it felt right just as it was. So without further ado…

* * *

Epilogue

The day had brightened as they rode away from the village. The sky clear and crisp but the sun warm on their backs. Even the horses seemed happy to be moving again. Athos shared the sentiment. It had been a full week since their horses had been kidnapped and Athos half expected to meet a search party sent by Treville coming the other way.

This time, the Duc's signet ring was sealed into an envelope and tucked safely into the breast of his coat. Athos was determined that it would not fall prey to more roadside-bandits.

He watched Porthos, d'Artagnan, and Aramis ride together ahead of him. The three of them side by side with d'Artagnan squeezed in the middle, his shoulder bandaged and his arm tight in a sling. Aramis sat atop his horse with the reins loose around its neck, one arm crossed beneath the elbow of the other as he tapped his chin, "Ah," he said, raising his finger, "Things that you wear that start with the letter 'B'."

"Britches," Porthos offered.

"Bodice," Aramis answered. He glanced at d'Artagnan to see if he'd caught the gist of the game.

"Aramis you don't wear those," Porthos said.

"Ah but I could."

"Yeah? Well, warn me before you do," he growled.

"Um, Boots," d'Artagnan said.

"Buttons," Porthos said.

"Bows," Aramis said.

"Beards?" d'Artagnan answered.

"Bruises."

"Brocade."

"Bandages," d'Artagnan answered, his tone turning serious as he eyed the sling that pinned his left arm to his chest.

"Bombs," Porthos grunted.

Aramis frowned, "Porthos you definitely can't wear those."

"If I tie 'em to my belt I'm wearin'em."

"Fine. Belt."

"Buckles," d'Artagnan continued.

Porthos chuckled, "_Belt Buckles_."

Aramis rolled his eyes, "Bandolier."

"Buff coat," d'Artagnan suggested.

Aramis and Porthos paused to stare at their younger counterpart in appreciation.

"A Brace of pistols," Porthos added.

"Hey now," Aramis said, "that's hardly legal!"

"You're wearin'em aren't you? Besides, you were gonna wear a bodice."

Aramis leveled him with a glare, "Brooch."

D'Artagnan frowned in thought, then his expression cleared, "Tinder… _Box_."

Porthos grinned, "That's the spirit!"

Aramis groaned.

Athos couldn't keep the chuckle to himself and it built to a laugh as all three musketeers turned as one to glare at him. In that moment, he felt a weight lift off his chest and he realised how happy he was that he was counted as a friend to the three men riding before him.

...

.fin.


End file.
